


Tastes a Little like Freedom, a Little like Fear

by The_Winter_Straw



Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Adult Situations, Angst, Canon Divergence - Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, F/M, POV Second Person, Reader-Insert, Recovering Drug Addict, References to Mind Control, References to drug addiction, Sexual Situations, coarse language, drug references
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-13
Updated: 2020-06-15
Packaged: 2020-06-25 13:33:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 28,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19746778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Winter_Straw/pseuds/The_Winter_Straw
Summary: [Name] has finally got her life on track. She's been clean a year, has a full time job, and recently moved into an apartment that is actually fit to live in. To prove something to herself, she visits the Smithsonian exhibit on Captain America...only to run into someone a little familiar. Adopting a fellow addict is one thing. Accidentally adopting a recovering brainwashed Nazi super soldier is another. [Name]'s life is about to run off track worse than ever before, but there could be a reward at the end if she can just hang on for the bumpy ride.In response to the "100 Drabbles Adventure" challenge by SubtleQuirk on Lunaescence Archives.





	1. Mending

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, everybody. Good to see you. Welcome to this incredibly old, incredibly unfinished story I started, like...the week after I saw "Captain America: The Winter Soldier" and haven't touched since. I do intend to get around to finishing it someday, though, so I'm posting it here. Before you get started I just wanted to say: Yes, I DO realize that it's quite silly to have made the reader the _daughter_ of a Howling Commando. I'd just finished a story where the reader was raised by her grandparents, though, and I wanted to do something different. By the time I realized my mistake, it was too late to change it. 
> 
> Anyway! I hope you enjoy this as much as I enjoyed writing it. Bye!

It was eight months, two weeks, nine hours, and twenty-two minutes to the moment after the new Captain America installment was opened that you finally worked up the nerve to visit. By the time the remodel was finished, your life was settled enough that you could have gone opening day. Heck, the Smithsonian went as far as to send you an invitation, somehow, though you'd never worked out how they'd got your then-current address. But going would have required you to admit who you were, to answer questions about your father, to be told how proud he must have been of you, and to take it all in with a smile. With all _that_ no longer looming over your head, you felt a little silly having asked your friends to come along, once you'd actually arrived at the museum. 

You didn’t look enough like your father to garner undeserved adulation, and the building was so packed that you doubted anyone would look at you long enough to notice what resemblance there was. Such concerns were not what really threatened to push you over the edge. What _was_ was the sudden sympathy that erupted once the bright red, white, and blue signs came into view. One minute you were walking toward them, heart hammering, ears buzzing so loudly you could hardly hear President Ellis talking about Captain Rogers' courage, and the next, your little group had you surrounded. 

“Are you absolutely sure you should do this?” asked the red-head with heavy freckles. Karen’s lips practically trembled as she looked at you. She was always the most emotional one; perhaps you should not have told her what it was you were doing. 

Then Georgianna’s hand clapped around your shoulder. Your eyes met hers. She was always a lot quieter than the others, but apparently she had misgivings herself: 

“What if you relapse?” 

You allowed yourself a tiny frown. “I’m not going to–” 

“I don’t see why the fuck you’re bothering anyway,” Kat interrupted. “It’s not like your dad ever did anything for you anyway.” 

“My dad did plenty for me growing up. I need to do this for him. It's the last I can do now,” you answered quietly. 

Kat's heavily pierced face did not relax. She snorted, but decided to dig around in her purse as though she were searching for a cigarette rather than argue the point further. When she resurfaced (perhaps after remembering she couldn’t smoke inside the museum, no matter how worried she was for you), she rolled her brown eyes. “If it was _my_ dad that did all that, _I_ ’d likely piss on his grave. But I guess that’s the difference between you and me.” 

The three of them watched you carefully. If any of your companions expected you to walk out the building and go get dinner with them instead of throwing yourself head first into your proverbial pit of vipers, they were sorely disappointed. You took a very deep breath and straightened, then smiled directly at each one. “I’ve been clean for a year. This is something I have to do–and it’s easier than visiting his grave right now. I didn’t want to come alone, but you guys don’t have to come in with me if you don’t want to.” 

“As if,” said Kat, and she marched straight through the archway leading to the exhibit. 

“We’re right here with you, [Name],” said Karen. Somehow _she_ looked whiter than your reflection in the nearby map stand. Georgianna said nothing, but waited for Karen to take your hand before she led you after Kat's swiftly retreating back. They didn’t need to do that much. As far as the museum guests were concerned, you were just one more person there to visit after the recent catastrophic events surrounding Captain Rogers and some governmental spy planes. Likely _now_ someone would notice you, given that two women were petting and mothering you so much. Still, you allowed both of them to stay close, and tried to smile when they asked you if you remained okay. They had all seen you at rock bottom at one point or another. It stood to reason that they’d be worried about seeing you there again. 

Lucky for you, Kat didn’t feel the need to protect you quite as much. She feigned interest in signs and photographs and videos far ahead of yours. Occasionally, she would hang around until you caught up. Then she would say something snarky about things (“You mean to tell me _that_ shade of blue was given a pass? How did he not get his brains blown out right off the bat?”), bustling away before either of the other two could ask her to tone it down. 

After twenty minutes of reading about Captain Rogers–with very little new information gleaned, considering how many stories your dad had told about him all those years ago–the Howling Commandos section reared up before you. Your breath caught in your throat; you saw, out of the corner of your eyes, Karen and Georgianna freeze. No one made any sudden movements, but somehow your friends knew instinctively that this was the one place they could not follow you. You couldn’t have requested as much even if you'd wanted to. Your mouth went dry and your mind blank. The only reason you knew that Karen had released your hand was that your palm felt suddenly cold. Even that could have been the nerves. At a pace that could have left you outstripped by snails, you crept toward the display. 

Captain Roger’s face was in the middle, obviously. It was _his_ exhibit, and you had long grown used to seeing him on the television. The others posed problems. As you neared, your eyes roved across the faces of men that had once appeared quite frequently in your life: Jacques Dernier, Tim Dugan, Gabe Jones, and Montgomery Falsworth. By the time you reached the base of the display, you could no longer put off the inevitable. You sucked a great breath in and looked up into the face of your father. 

It was so much younger than in any of your memories, so much lighter. All of your mental preparation up to this point meant absolutely nothing. Your eyes stung and your throat burned. For a few seconds, it felt as though your legs might give way. 

_‘I shouldn’t be here,_ ' you thought. _'He wouldn’t want to see me. Why did I think this was a good idea?’_

You had come because you wanted to make amends with the past, though your past had dissolved like snow years ago. You had come because you wanted to prove to yourself that you were strong enough to do so. You had come because you were sick of telling people you still hadn’t visited when they finally worked out who you were. All were selfish reasons, but you’d always been selfish. Your dad wouldn’t have been surprised. Probably he would have hugged you to his chest and asked you where you’d been for so long–and you didn’t have a good answer, not even after severing ties with him so long, long ago. 

You could feel your friends’ eyes trained like laser pointers at your back; running from the museum was obviously not an option. They _expected_ you to fall to pieces. They were there to pick up those pieces. That was the whole reason you’d asked them to come along, but you’d really thought you would be able to handle a little more than this. When you saw your therapy group later this week, you wanted to stand in front of everyone and tell them what you’d managed. You _didn’t_ want to hide in the back, too embarrassed to admit your lack of progress for the third month in a row. 

Before anyone could walk up and drag you away, you hurried off toward another exhibit, try as you might have _not_ to hurry. You hoped none of your friends would follow. For a few minutes– _just_ a few minutes–you needed to not have to assure them of anything. You could hardly manage to assure yourself. 

Sergeant James Barnes’ picture was probably not the best one to station yourself in front of, at least in terms of cheering you up. Your father had spoken nearly as highly of _him_ as of Captain Rogers, but the former had never come back. Sergeant Barnes was the only Howling Commando that never met you, and was therefore the only one that wouldn’t be ashamed to have you visit. You leaned against the railing for several minutes, breathing deeply in and out and giving yourself a pep talk, wondering what _he_ would have to say to you right about now. 

Eventually, you felt that you could handle yourself. You could walk right back to Karen and Georgianna and Kat, smile, and let them walk you home. Maybe once you got there, things would be a little harder, but your apartment was clean of anything that could tempt you. Your refrigerator held only orange juice, milk, an odd assortment of breakfast food, and Lean Cuisine dinners; any other sorts of paraphernalia had long since been thrown out. 

You offered Sergeant Barnes a shaky salute before screwing up your courage to trot off. You figured it was, again, the least you could do. For a long minute afterward, though, you just stared up at him, hoping, perhaps, that he could give you the forgiveness you so craved. But he was only a static picture, and a static picture of someone you'd never met on top of that. Spinning about, you made your way back toward the entrance– 

–only to nearly crash straight into another museum guest that had come up behind you while you were otherwise preoccupied. He said absolutely nothing as you righted yourself, and made no noise at all when you squeaked out a rapid, “Sorry!” that was more for him having to watch you have a meltdown than for stepping into him. It was the silence that got you: He looked…scared. His clothes were disheveled, his long hair shoved haphazardly into a hat, and his gloved knuckles tight around the strap of his pack. More suspicious still was the way he held himself as he stared at you, like he had recently been hurt. Slowly, your mouth fell into a frown. 

“Are you okay?” 

Again, the man said nothing. Well, if he didn’t _want_ you to take him to a hospital, you certainly couldn’t _force_ him to come with you…but leaving him there looking like that didn’t feel quite right either. 

“Sorry,” you said again, more quiet and calm. Perhaps he would talk to you about Sergeant Barnes? He seemed somewhat interested in the photograph, his eyes shifting between your face and Barnes' for the several seconds you watched him. Following his gaze, you glanced back at the photograph and felt as though something had punched you in the stomach. Swiftly, you looked back at the man, then back at the picture, then back to the man. Now he wouldn't take his eyes off you at all. “You related?” you asked at last. His knuckles only turned twisted his strap harder. “Sorry. You just look a little like him.” 

You got nothing in response to _this_ observation either. Hoping that he wasn’t offended, you decided to change the subject a little. “That’s my dad,” you said in a rush, and turned to point at the Howling Commandos exhibit in the other direction. “James Morita. Him.” 

When the strange didn’t speak, not even to scoff because you looked nothing like your dad, you spun back around. 

He was gone. 

Spinning quickly in a circle, you realized that the man was nowhere to be seen. You had looked away for less than five seconds, and yet he was gone. As it was growing to be nightfall, the museum wasn’t terribly full anymore; you would have been able to spot him rushing off. 

“Hey, [Name]. Ready to go?” You let out a gasp and turned around once again to see Georgianna standing right next to you. Her forehead creased at the obvious apprehension on your face. “What’s wrong?” 

“That man!” you said. “Where did he–? He was right here.” 

“What man?” 

“The man that was looking at this, too! He was–he looked strung out! He could be hurt somewhere! I have to–” 

Georgianna stopped your tirade by placing her hands on both your shoulders. “Have to do what? Help him? How do you help someone that’s gone?” 

“I don’t know, but I can’t just–” 

“What’s the prayer, [Name]?” 

“Not _now_ George!” 

“What’s the prayer?” 

As you stared at her, your heartbeat started to die down. She was right, of course. You couldn’t help someone that didn’t want help. Trying to do so would likely only land you in hot water, and you’d been doing so well lately. But if he _was_ related to Bucky Barnes, the two of you were in the same boat, weren’t you? Was that it? You thought helping him would somehow absolve you of running off on your father all those years ago? 

Your shoulders fell. Georgianna kept her eyes on you while you bit your lip for another five seconds. Then, with a sigh, you answered: “Grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and wisdom to know the difference.” 

“Very good. And is some guy you met at a museum something you can change?” 

“No.” 

“Good,” she said again. One of her hands patted you a couple times on the back, then Georgianna pointed toward the entrance to the Captain America portion of the museum, where Kat and Karen were already hovering, watching the two of you through wide eyes. “Kat’s getting hungry, and you know how _that_ goes. Ready to blow this joint?” 

“I…” Why did your chest still feel so tight? Only ten minutes ago, you’d wanted to run off and never come back. “Actually, I think I’m gonna stay here for a bit. There are a few more things I want to check out.” 

“[Name]…” 

You forced a laugh that turned more genuine toward the end. Now that the worst was over, you felt lot better. You’d visited your father’s museum piece and hadn't been smote where you stood. The nerves were still a bit of an issue, but not so much that you were going to do something you regretted that evening. In fact, you thought you’d probably sleep better that night than you had since people started asking you why you hadn’t come to the Smithsonian yet. 

“I’m fine, I promise. I just want to be alone for a little bit. I’ll look at a few things and walk home.” Georgianna didn't look convinced; it was _your_ turn to pat her back. “Look, if it’ll make you feel better, I’ll call you when I get home–and you can come by this evening to check on me.” 

“We’ll be by right after dinner,” Georgianna said. She started to walk away, then added, “All three of us. So you’d _better_ not be lying.” 

“I’ll make sure to answer the door this time,” you answered with a smile. She paused once more to stare at you, almost so long that you felt uncomfortable. Suddenly you felt her arms around you. 

“Stay safe. I'm so proud of you,” she whispered. 

Off she went at a trot. You watched until she reached the other two and Kat shot you a clearly pissed off look for ditching her before you started to wander deeper into the museum. When your phone buzzed, you ignored it; it was probably just her reminding you to keep your promise–and you intended to. It was just that, as you looked at the rest of the relics from a time period that seemed more fable than fact to you, you couldn’t get the image of that frightened man out of your head. You hoped _he_ was okay. You hoped _he_ didn’t have a father desperate for him to come home.


	2. Misunderstanding

“Checking things out” translated to aimless wandering through the building. Something you had noticed since deciding once and for all that you wanted to get clean was that being alone was hard. Being with people was hard. The best you could do as a compromise was hang out in public where there were people around you, but not _with_ you. Some days–like that day–you wished you didn't have those feelings anymore. You did. Probably always would. Recovery was a lifelong process, and you wanted to disappoint yourself just as much as you wanted to disappoint Karen and Kat and Georgianna.

If you hadn’t promised to be home, you might have stayed at the Smithsonian until it closed. There was plenty to look at that didn’t pertain to your father or his past, and sitting on the occasional bench to listen people passing by made for a pleasant distraction. None of the passersby wanted to ask you questions more difficult than “Can you take a picture of us?” It was good to remind yourself that other people existed out there living happy, normal lives, and that you were now well enough to join them. Still, upsetting Kat by not being where you said you’d be when you'd said you'd be there wasn’t a good plan unless you had a death wish. You exited the museum long before anyone came over the intercom to tell you to.

Pausing at the entrance, you pulled on your jacket. Clusters of families set off toward cars and taxis and subways. Now that the sun had set entirely, it was a little chilly outside, but not chilly enough to convince you to take any of those to your own destination. Your apartment wasn’t very far away. The exercise might get you more in the mood to eat, too.

You set out as you tugged your hood up to keep your ears protected from the lingering spring cold. Images from the day’s adventure drifted through your head as you did. It was hard to believe that your father had ever been that young, or any of the various “uncles” you’d had growing up. It was one thing to hear about their lives, forced to sit on the couch for endless hours looking at photographs, but quite another to see just how much of an impact they had on the rest of the world. Somewhere deep within your chest, you felt a stirring of pride. The sensation had been long missing from your life. Its return felt almost comforting. 

A sort of quiet _clunk_ interrupted your reverie. You were passing an alleyway between a couple of old brick buildings hung with rusty fire escapes, and the noise startled you. Probably it was nothing, but maybe it was a mugger. Showing up at home with your face bloodied up would do nothing for your case with your friends. Your muscles tensed as you turned swiftly in the direction of the noise, expecting an attack that you already knew you were too late to prevent.

For the second time that night, you were surprised to find yourself in very close proximity to someone when you’d thought you'd been alone. More surprising still was that this was the _exact_ same person from before. You might have thought you’d picked up a stalker, if it wasn’t for the fact that he was leaning against the dumpster and shivering violently.

“Hello,” you said awkwardly, and then immediately winced. Because trying to talk to him had worked out _so_ well the first time. _Obviously_ small talk was the answer to this situation.

As usual, the man did not bother to respond. In fact, you weren’t entirely sure he knew you were there. His blue eyes were fixed at a point above your shoulder–and his teeth were gritted as though he were in a massive amount of pain. This, more than anything, jarred you to action.

You took one step forward. His eyes immediately snapped onto your movement. Maybe it was a trick of the orange light coming off the nearby streetlamp, but they didn’t exactly appear focused. Both his hands balled into fists. Quickly, you lifted your own hands, palms toward him.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” you said slowly. The man neither relaxed nor stiffened further. Once about fifteen seconds had passed, you licked your lips and drew a little closer. “Are you hurt? Do you need me to call an ambulance?”

His mouth half opened; you caught a few flicks of his pink tongue. The only sound that came out of him, however, was a sort of grunt. It was a grunt clear enough to discern as a _“no.”_

You were by then close enough to see his features better. His skin was very pale and covered in a thin sheen of sweat. His eyes kept flicking all around, never focusing on any one thing for more than two seconds. The smell coming off him wasn’t particularly good either.

“Wow,” you breathed. “You’re not doing well, are you?”

This was not a terribly kind thing to say, and you winced again hearing the words pop out of your mouth. For all you knew, the human being in front of you wanted just as badly as you did to make something of himself. Maybe this was a relapse. Even if it wasn’t, he was still a human being, and deserved kinder language. Whoever he was, he only drew in a long shuddering breath in answer.

For a long moment, you chewed your lower lip. You couldn’t take your eyes off of him for fear that he would disappear again. In this sort of state, he could do some serious damage to people or property or himself. He could also do some serious damage to you, which was why your next sentence was quite possibly the stupidest you had uttered in weeks:

“Come with me.”

His eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly, but you took this as a sign that the man at least understood you. Unfortunately, a millisecond later, he grabbed his bag and practically hurled himself against the alley wall–all without even bothering to stand.

You sighed and pressed your hair off your forehead. He had not accepted your offer; it was time to head home, call it a day, and let him get on with his life. Bringing someone you could only presume was a user into your apartment was just asking for you to get in enormous trouble. Only…Only you’d _been_ there. How many times had you ended up outside in the cold, unable to figure out how to get home, afraid of being found out, shaking too hard to even move? You couldn’t just _leave_ him like this. Maybe the fact that he looked like one of your dad’s old war buddies had something to do with it, but you knew that if you moved on, you’d be up all night worried about him getting into trouble, or ending up dead, or both.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” you said again, and then very slowly settled yourself down right where you stood. “Look, I know this is sort of presumptuous of me, but I’ve been in your shoes. You don’t want to go to the hospital like this. I get it. There’s a couch at my place. You can crash on it ‘til this is out of your system. See about rehab or something tomorrow morning. I won’t call the police.”

_‘Unless you do something to endanger me or the people in my apartment building,’_ you added silently in your head–but you didn’t think the man would appreciate that addition. He probably either already figured you wouldn't keep your promise in the face of a physical attack...or was planning to murder you in your sleep and ransack your place anyway. 

He only continued to stare at you, like you'd grown a second head or something. You nibbled on your lower lip some more as you stared right back. The bags underneath his eyes looked painful. Something told you there was more wrong with this guy than the drugs running through his system. Again you thought it would be a better plan to move along. What would Georgianna and Karen say if they found him in your apartment? It wasn’t as though you could hide him in your closet. Once he passed out, you doubted you’d be able to move him anywhere yourself.

Five minutes later, and all you had got from the man was a subtle loosening of his joints. His expression had calmed down for the most part. In fact, his staring was starting to get a little disconcerting. Whatever was going on, you couldn’t sit there for the rest of the night. If your friends found your apartment empty, they might assume the worst, and you couldn’t handle an intervention that night. At last, you closed your eyes, sighed, and got to your feet.

“Well, good luck,” you said. He continued to watch you entirely silently. You lifted a hand and pointed toward the opposite street “There’s a shelter a few blocks down. For when you’ve come down a bit.”

Still nothing. You turned back around so as to avoid looking at him when you turned the corner. You weren’t sure you could handle that; you might start to tear up. _‘Grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,’_ you thought, setting off at a much quicker pace toward your apartment. Not once did you look back, afraid that you might return to that alley if you did. People turned to drugs for all sorts of reasons. That guy might have needed someone. Clearly that someone wasn’t you. 

Probably you _should_ have looked back. It might have prevented you screaming when you turned to shut the door behind you and found him standing right outside.


	3. Collapse

Porch lights up and down the hallway began to flicker on. While it was not late in the night, the sound of your scream echoing against the white-washed walls would not go unnoticed. Your heart hammered as the clicks of locks filled the air. It was hard to think straight with the day you were having. Before you really knew what you were doing, you had grabbed the man’s right arm, yanked him inside, and slammed the door shut. You could only hope general apathy would prevent your neighbors from investigating the situation further. Still you stood with your back pressed against the door and your eyes screwed shut, as though that would somehow get people to stay away.

When you opened your eyes again, it took you a few seconds to remember that you had invited this man into your home. He was now half-lumbering, half-stumbling through your living room with heavy steps that made the wood floor beneath your feet shake. As you watched with wide eyes, he stopped to look at the ceiling, ducked his head to look underneath your kitchen table, and started to pick up every photograph on the mantelpiece so that he could look at their backs.

“Um, excuse me.” You gently tugged the framed picture of you and your friends at the zoo from his hand. “Can you maybe not? My friends are going to be here soon. I don’t need them thinking I’ve been robbed.”

As per the usual (if you could say that of an acquaintanceship of less than three hours), your new friend did not speak. He just stared down at you. You were struck quite suddenly by how tall he was. He absolutely towered above you, and his baggy clothes did not entirely obscure his well-toned physique. Without breaking your gaze, you set the picture back into place. Then you gestured toward the couch.

“Make yourself at home.”

He didn’t move. Again, you smoothed your hair away from your face. This was _so_ not working out well. There was a reason your sponsor had yet to allow you to be a sponsor yourself. You still didn't handle failure well. This was part of why going to the museum hadn't triggered you: You could consider that a success. This person, though? Just might have pushed you over the edge. You weren’t ready for this, but at this stage of the game, you couldn’t exactly just kick him out.

You took his arm for a second time and tried to lead him physically over to the couch–"tried" being the key word. The man was a heck of a lot heavier than he looked, even with his muscles taken into consideration. Had he not chosen a few seconds later to _allow_ you to move him, pulling him around never would have worked. He might have stayed standing by your television for the rest of eternity.

Even then, he did not seem inclined to take a seat. You were starting to feel more and more uncomfortable the longer he watched you like that. What was it exactly that he was looking for? Maybe he thought you were about to whip out a knife on him.

“I’ll go…get you a pillow and some blankets, okay?”

You didn’t bother to wait for an answer, and you heard no attempt at one as you darted through the door to your bedroom. Finding a spare blanket and pillow took you less than a minute. Unfortunately, by then, you were sort of hoping he’d pull another Houdini act. Sure, that would mean worrying about whether or not he’d taken the spare key with him, but you were starting to think a stolen television would be worth not having to deal with an entirely silent homeless man for the rest of the evening.

When you traipsed back out into the living room area, however, your guest was still there. He was no longer where you left him, but instead in the kitchen, riffling through your cup cabinet and pulling out drawers.

“Hey!” you shouted. He stopped and turned toward you, his expression still unreadable. “Look, I don’t know where you hide _your_ drugs, but you aren’t going to find any here. You’re here to ride it out, not light up again. You start that, and the no police deal is off.”

In something that seemed almost a mockery of your standoff in the alley, he lifted his hands and stepped away from the cabinet. His bag fell to his side. You watched it do so through narrowed eyes.

“What’s in there? Is it drug stuff?”

All the man did in answer was clutch at his bag. The clock on the kitchen wall ticked off ten seconds. You tensed more as each one passed. If he had brought paraphernalia inside, what were you going to do? But slowly, slowly, very slowly, he put his hands down and shook his head.

“You got a voice?” you asked him–but, of course, he didn’t answer that either. You let out a snort, but waved him back over to the couch. “I guess you can’t have anything too bad in there, if you made it inside the museum with it.”

You looked back up to see that he had not walked over to you. He was peering out the window–but stopped to pull the blinds down as soon as you noticed. Only then did he wander over to stare down at you once again. Biting your lip, you nervously patted the pillow you’d propped up against one arm of the couch. Finally, he followed your eyes, paused, and sat down.

His posture was stiff and upright, and he didn’t relax his arms. It was as though he were expecting an attack of some kind. You really hoped that wasn’t the case. Your fighting days were over and had never been particularly stellar to begin with. Add to that the fact that this guy wasn’t looking at the top of his game either, and you were pretty sure that whoever was after him would win. Even as you pondered the present situation you had landed yourself in, the man slumped over.

“So,” you drew out the word as you sat down on the coffee table across from him, “do you have a name? Or at least something I can call you other than ‘hey you’?”

He closed his eyes, as though the very question caused him a good deal of pain. But that made no sense. If he didn’t react like a crazy person whenever you got too close without warning, you would have made to look at the side he was leaning on. A stab wound or a gunshot would need quick attention, attention you could not give. Maybe Kat could look at it when she got here? _‘Oh, jeez,’_ you thought, and let out a groan. If this guy died on your couch…

“Okay,” you said, when again you didn’t get any information. His eyelashes fluttered against his cheeks. Well, he’d only be around for a few more hours, right? “I’m going to make something to eat. Nothing exciting. Probably just macaroni and cheese. You can have some, if you want.”

No answer. You expected as much by now, but that didn’t mean the silence wasn’t frustrating. Why had he followed you home if he planned to pretend you weren’t there all evening? You’d never promised you wouldn’t _talk_ to him. Maybe he just wasn't up to conversation, but still.

“The bathroom’s down the hall. You want to take a shower?” Either your subtle hint that he could use some shampoo in that mane of his was too subtle, or he was simply too far gone to care much. Another ragged sigh accompanied your movement upward. Hopefully things weren’t so bad that you’d have to toss that pillow. You were sort of fond of it.

This train of thought took you almost past the couch. Just before you made it, however, a very hard something wrapped around your wrist and jerked you a half-step backward. When you turned to look, you found it was your guest's hand. His grip was like iron. You could not have broken free if you tried. Suddenly, you were very scared. He was bigger than you by several times over. Worse still, he wasn’t anywhere near as pale as he had been when he’d entered your apartment. Your eyes flicked from the hand around your wrist to his eyes–and they were clearer than you had ever seen them. They tightened when you met them.

“What are you–” you began, and could not help the quaver of fear in your voice. You never got to finish the sentence. As soon as you started, his grip loosened, his eyelids fluttered again, and then…he fell backward onto the couch. You stood there, watching, for another half a minute, waiting for him to spring up and hit you, but no such attack ever came. Then a new worry occurred to you: “Oh crap. Oh crap. Are you dead? _Please_ don’t be dead.”

But when you rushed over to check, you saw his chest moving up and down. You let out a breath from your nose and allowed yourself a smile. Watching him sleep like that made you feel a little better. Tomorrow would be a new day. Maybe he’d talk to you. Maybe you’d wake up to find him gone. You’d done your best either way...or so you thought, until you heard a sharp rap at the door.


	4. Truth

“Coming!” you shouted, but did not move. Your gaze remained arrested on your guest. He had toppled in exactly the wrong direction, with his booted feet still on the floor and the rest of his body slumped away from the pillow. Whoever was at the door knocked again, longer and more insistently. “I’m coming!”

Quickly, before much more time could pass, you tore the blanket out from underneath him–quite literally. You were eighty-percent certain that you heard something rip. At the moment, you didn’t have the mental fortitude to ponder the loss; you were too busy tucking the blanket around him. How this was supposed to make his presence look _less_ awkward, you didn’t know. It was just the best you could do at such short notice.

The rapping began anew, more incessant than ever. You didn’t bother trying to put whoever it was off this time; you just raced for the door and flung it open, careful to catch the edge in your other hand so that it wouldn’t wake your guest when the door hit the wall. It did not occur to you to check who it was doing the knocking before you launched instantly into an apology:

“Everything is fine! Sorry! My friend scared me in the hallway. I’ll ask them not to do that anymore. Sorry!”

Karen’s eyebrows pinched together. “You have friends other than us?”

At first, your chest loosened considerably. Having only moved into this apartment a few days ago, you would have hated for your first interaction with your neighbors to have been over a noise violation. Then you remembered who (what?) exactly you had on your couch.

“What are you doing here?” you asked in a rush. 

This only made Karen look more worried. “You said we could come by to check on you later.”

“Where’re George and Kat?”

“George got called in to work, and Kat said she didn’t think you needed her tonight. She said she’d come by tomorrow to punch your face in if I came back with a poor report, though. Hope it’s okay that it’s just me.”

Your teeth found perch in your lips once more as you pondered the situation. Of the three of your friends, it was Georgianna that would be the most concerned about the addict asleep in your living room–but there was no saying that Karen wouldn’t let the information slip before you had a chance to explain things to Georgianna yourself. Not allowing Karen in, on the other hand, would only arouse suspicion.

While you tried to figure out the best course of action for everyone involved, Karen cocked her head to one side, more and more, until it seemed even she thought the quiet maddening–and she hadn’t been dealing with it for nearly as long as you had! When this did nothing to spur your thought process on, she shifted in place. “So…are you going to let me in?”

Your shoulders fell in submission; you lifted your arm away from where it had been barring her entry. “Please don’t hate me,” you begged her as she walked inside.

“Hate you?” Karen’s voice raised an octave. You could see where her thoughts were going from a mile away. Fortunately (or perhaps unfortunately), her eyes landed on the unconscious man in the room before her imagination could take her any farther. She came to an immediate stop. “[Name]?”

“Yes?” you asked innocently.

“Why is there a man on your couch?”

“Would you believe he’s my cousin?”

You spoke the question in such a way that she would know right off the bat that that wasn’t true. Her lips were trembled when she turned toward you. “[Name]. What have you _done_?”

“Nothing.” The word spilled out too fast. Karen looked as though she was about to cry. “Nothing, I promise! Look, you can check around. There’s nothing here! I haven’t done anything. I’m entirely lucid, Karen. I know who you are; I know where I am.”

“Do you know who he is?”

“Well…” Your eyes rolled once toward the ceiling and back again. “No.”

“[Name],” she sighed. You bit your lip so hard you were honestly surprised that it didn’t start bleeding. While she looked at you with those big, brown doe eyes of hers, you rolled up your sleeves and held your arms up to her. You saw her nostrils contract slightly at your approach. Evidently, this was enough for Karen. She sank onto the nearby chair with her eyes locked on him. “What’s the story?” she asked, in a tired sort of voice.

“Story? There’s no story.”

She turned sharply back to you. “[Name], if you don’t start telling the truth, I’m going to have to call Kat and George.”

“I was telling the truth about whether or not I’d taken anything tonight, and I’m telling the truth about this, Karen.” Her eyes narrowed as you knelt beside her. “Remember that guy at the museum I was talking to?”

She shook her head. “No.”

“Well, he was there. He was there one minute, and then he disappeared.”

“Oh. I think George _did_ say something about him. I thought you agreed not to look for him.”

“I didn’t look for him! Karen, I _swear_. I was walking home–”

“ _He’s_ the guy that scared you?” She rocketed to her feet. “He _followed you home_?” 

You recognized the look on her face. Quiet Karen could pull out all the stops on people she decided she didn’t like, an aftereffect of teaching at a middle school for five years and breaking up fights, you supposed. It took all you had in you to keep yourself from diving in front of her and stopping her physically from beating the snot out of the guy.

“Kind of? Oh, come on. Put your purse down. George doesn’t want to get a call about a beating here. You want to give her a heart attack?”

She continued to stare at him for another tense thirty seconds. Then she turned back to you. “Explain,” Karen commanded. 

You twiddled with a lock of hair. “Like I said, I didn’t go looking for him. I ran into him on the way home and…and-he-looked-like-he-didn’t-know-where-he-was-so-I-invited-him-to-stay-the-night.”

“ _What_?”

Well, you could give your guest one thing: Once he was out, he was out. The couple of gentle snores that drifted from his direction every few minutes were the only things that prevented you from thinking he was dead again. He hadn’t so much as twitched during your and Karen’s not-exactly-quiet conversation. 

When you finally looked back at her, it was clear she had already put two and two together. “You mean you invited some guy that was high into your new apartment?”

“I couldn’t leave him there,” you said, and even you caught the pleading note in your voice. “I mean, he looks sorta like one of my dad’s friends that died in the war, and…and I’ve been there, too. You took me in when I did.”

“But I was never an addict,” she pointed out. You knew she didn’t mean it to sound cruel, that she was just stating facts. Still you could not seem to help the tears that sprung to your eyes. Karen’s breath hissed in as she realized what she’d said. “No, [Name]. I didn’t mean it like _that_.”

“I know.” Hastily, you dabbed at your eyes with the sleeve of your jacket.

She hummed and hugged you just as Georgianna had done in the museum. “You’ve always been so empathetic.” Then Karen surprised you: she laughed. You twisted out of her arms to get a better look at her face. “Sorry,” she said. “It’s just…you’ve been wanting to help out other people, and your sponsor won’t let you. Maybe this is fate.”

“Yeah, I seriously doubt that.” You sat back on Karen’s vacated chair to look upon your slumbering guest. “He won’t even talk to me.”

“Could be he’s just too strung out.”

“Probably.”

“If anyone can get him to talk, you can.”

Karen was just saying that in a confused attempt to apologize for your irrational tears at her earlier comment. You smiled up at her in to try to relieve her guilt. “I’m going to take him to the hospital once he’s woken up and got himself sober. Nothing as impressive as a sponsorship.”

Quiet buzzed through the room. Both you and Karen watched the man sleep. After about five minutes had passed, Karen patted you on the shoulder and walked back over to the door.

“Where are you going?” you asked before she could open it.

“Home. I’ve got about two-hundred papers to grade by Monday.” Karen smiled at your bewildered expression. “You’re clearly fine, [Name]. I trust you. We all do. But you’ll call if there’s any trouble?”

Hardly daring to believe you had got off so easily, you scrambled to your feet to let her out. “I’ll call if anything comes up. I promise. Thanks for being so cool, Karen.”

She only grinned again, waved, and then disappeared back down the hall. As soon as she did, you felt a faint flutter of nerves. Now you were alone with this guy. The sudden lack of available help if a crisis occurred felt all the more terrifying now that you had lost the only help you’d had. You closed the door and tiptoed back over to your bedroom. The idea of dinner now seemed entirely unappealing. Skipping a meal was a terrible idea, but you thought you might lose your head if you tried to cook something and inadvertently woke him up.

Just before you shut yourself in, you peered at him from the gap between the door and the wall. Even in sleep, he was huge. You remembered again how impossibly hard and cold his hand had been around your wrist, how he had regarded you just before passing out. He seemed thoroughly asleep, but…you snapped the lock on your bedroom door before turning to pull your pajamas out of your dresser. If he put his mind to breaking in, you had no doubt that the lock would do nothing to stop him. At least Karen had seen his face, too. If anything happened to you, someone could describe him to the police.


	5. Mystery

The alarm beside your bed went off at the blue-gray hour of six-thirty. It was Saturday, but no sooner had the beeping began than did you slap the off button and sit up, yawning. Sleep's clammy fingers still dragged groggily through your mind as you stared around your tiny bedroom. Kat despaired of your inability to sleep in. _You_ knew routine kept you in a better habit of not breaking said routine.

The red numbers on your clock’s face only increased by seven minutes by the time you had stood up, made your bed, and opened the blinds. You kept yourself occupied while doing these tasks by wondering what you were going to do that day. Your early morning sponsor meeting wouldn’t take until lunch. It was sure to be a tedious day of sitting around otherwise. Unlike Karen, you did not have to spend your days off reading student papers, and, unlike Georgianna and Kat, you never had to work weekends. Unfortunately, a lack of activity was something you active tried to avoid.

It was only when you made it to the bedroom door and found it locked that you remembered that your day was already a heck of lot messier than initially assumed–and you didn't even realize that straight away. The handle refused to move, you gasped, and _then_ you recalled your guest of the night before.

You were not sure what you wanted more: To find him disappeared with or without half the contents of your living room, or to find him awake and ready to go to the hospital. Awake, you decided at last, as you steeled yourself to open the door to find out what lay beyond it. So long as he was communicative enough to let you know he wanted to go to the hospital, he needn’t say anything else. After that, you could draw to a close this short and meaningless relationship.

Lucky for you, you weren’t wearing anything too troublesome, unless this guy would go wild at the joke boxers Kat had got you for Christmas and a very old, worn gray t-shirt. You could have changed, of course, and showered before really checking up on him. The idea of making yourself that vulnerable if he could still be around wasn’t appealing in the slightest, though.

_Don’t be silly. You’re already vulnerable,_ you thought, remembering how easily the man had kept you from walking off the night before. Not a very comforting memory. After you screwed up your courage, you finally unlocked your bedroom door to peek out into the living room.

Your living room sat entirely silent and entirely still. The light from the sun had yet to make much of a dent, considering your guest had turned the blinds down the night before. But he was there, still on the couch, still dead to the world. He had adjusted himself somewhat since you’d last seen him; he was no longer sitting with his head rolling backward, but stretched across the cushions on his back, one arm thrown over his face as though to keep away what very little light might have crept underneath his lids.

His body, you could tell as soon as you walked across the carpet to get a better look at him, was not the _only_ thing he had moved. It was a subtle thing–perhaps subtler still, given your brief time in that apartment–but all your possessions had been moved as well. The pictures on the wall hung much straighter than before; the rugs had all been pulled tight; the heavy kitchen table had just barely missed the impressions it had already made on the floor.

He was looking for something. But what?

Quickly, you strode on your tiptoes about the main area of your apartment. Everything had been moved a little, but to what end you could not guess. _He probably didn’t know to what end either_ , came another unhelpful thought. Another came soon after: Did this have something to do with the thing Georgianna had found while helping you pack up your old place? Some tiny electronic thing, dusty and dead looking, that none of the four of you could work out. It might have been left there by the old tenants, except for that it had been stuck quite stubbornly behind the joints of a closet door, and you’d had a collection of six by the time the day was over. You had thrown all those out, though. There weren't any left.

You shook your head wildly to get rid of that train of thought. Were you _really_ going to jump aboard Kat and Karen's conspiracy theory bandwagon? Whatever those things had been, there weren’t any in your new place. There were no signs of them, crushed or otherwise, on the floor or in the garbage or by his things. Whatever your new friend had been looking for, he hadn’t found it.

To prevent yourself from obsessing over something you didn’t want to talk to your sponsor about in the slightest, you switched on the television. The channel was still set to some news station Kat had put on while helping you move in. It didn’t really occur to you to pay attention until after you’d poured some Chex cereal into a bowl, added milk, and plopped yourself down at your slightly off-center table.

“But where _is_ Captain America?” demanded some well-dressed woman on the television. “If this is the sort of behavior we can expect from him, I wonder about the decision to defrost and return him to active duty to begin with.”

The man beside her rolled his eyes. “It’s not as though they gave him much of a choice in the matter.”

“He blew up _three_ highly advanced security vehicles–and now he’s gone! Natasha Romanoff refuses to say where he disappeared to, and his apartment is empty. If that isn’t suspicious, I don’t know what is.”

“Last time I checked, he was at the hospital.”

“Then you haven’t checked in a while. Are you kidding me with this? You want to argue about this on air? Captain Steve Rogers is every bit as much of a danger to this country as HYDRA and their ghost assassin was. If the government isn’t trying to find both these men–”

“Because _that’s_ a good use of taxpayer money, with everything else that’s gone to pot lately,” the man sneered.

You eyed the screen in wonder as you finished draining your bowl of milk. Captain Rogers was no longer in the country? Well, after that fiasco, you couldn’t exactly blame him. Maybe that was why he hadn’t bothered to visit in so long. Hopefully he would be all right.

The news continued on in this vein for the next thirty minutes. SHIELD’s dissolving, its headquarters being demolished, the helicarrier crashes, and the resulting trials that only one agent seemed inclined to attend had all been headline news ever since said events two weeks ago–which was part of what had spurred you on to your visit to the Smithsonian. You _knew_ Captain Rogers wasn’t the kind of person the female correspondent was imagining, but a small part of you wanted reminding anyway.

Though you set the volume loud enough that you could hear the television in the kitchen, the man on the couch didn’t wake up. You waited until the very last minute to stand, put your spoon and bowl in the dishwasher, and pad back into the living room. He hadn’t so much as shifted his position. If you hadn’t been terrified of him, you might have tried to wake him. As it was? You’d just have to hope that, since he had clearly not found anything worth stealing during his night’s adventures, he would simply leave if he woke up before you got back from your meeting. 

But what if he thought he couldn’t?

You rushed back into your room, threw on your clothes for the day, and ran back out with pen and paper in hand. For a moment, you sat flummoxed before him. How to start a note to someone who hadn’t bothered to introduce himself? Eventually you gave up on the salutation.

_There’s cereal in the cabinet next to the fridge, if you didn’t already know that. Lock the door behind you, please!_

That was all you could do. As much as you hated the idea of leaving him unsupervised in your home, you hated the idea of asking your sponsor if you could put the meeting off more. Then you would have to explain why, and you already knew that you were absolutely _not_ going to bring this little incident up if you could help it.

He started to snore just as you left the apartment.

******

As you had expected, your meeting lasted only an hour. Your intestines might have squirmed at your purposeful omission of what you’d left back at your home, but not enough to push you into admitting what you’d done. All your sponsor did was look through your diary cards, talk to you a little bit about how your job was going, and set up a time to meet the following week. Easy-peasy.

Not very many of the other residents of your apartment complex were up and about that early on a weekend morning, something for which you were very thankful upon your return. The few you ran into on your way back in all nodded and smiled as you passed. This was good. Perhaps they had _not_ connected you with the ruckus from the night before. Unfortunately, once you got to your apartment, you realized that there might have been an entirely new ruckus to worry about.

You remembered leaving your television on when you left. You did not recall leaving it on so _loud_. The words being said were indiscernible through the door, but the noise was enough that you could hear the mumbling from several feet away. After a few seconds of fumbling with your keys, you finally found the right one and burst inside. Your only goal was to turn the TV off, but very soon that thought was driven out by another entirely: Your guest was gone.

The torn beige blanket sat in a mound at one end of the couch; the pillow looked a mess at the other. Nothing else looked as though it had been moved–especially the note. That remained _exactly_ where you had left it, as though the man had not bothered reading it at all. Feeling somehow numb, you found the remote on the coffee table, and switched the television off.

_That’s it,_ you thought. _He left._ That was what you had wanted, wasn’t it? So why did you feel so empty? Because, you decided, you really hadn’t wanted him to wander off on his own. What if he just ended up in the same state? You could not search all of Washington, D.C. to find him. It would be a long sleepless night of worry for you.

And then you heard it: A faint sort of rushing noise coming from down the hallway. You had lived by yourself for so long that it took you several seconds to figure out what the sound was. As you sneaked in that direction, you realized that it was coming from the bathroom. Someone was in the shower. The light was on. Was _he_ in there? The only way to find out was to knock.

“Hello?” you called. No answer. While this was not exactly surprising, sudden thoughts rushed unbidden into your head. He had clearly been injured the night before. He could have bled out in your shower. How were you supposed to explain _that_ to the police? Praying that you wouldn’t see anything you weren’t ready for, you twisted the handle. It swiveled easily in your palm. You were inside. Sitting there, fully clothed while the water poured over him, was your guest. For nearly an entire minute, you were too startled to speak.

Your first thought was of foolish fear: How long had he been in there? The mirror was entirely clear of fog; no condensation clung to the counter or the toilet seat or the towel rack. Had he used up _all_ the hot water in the building? Was he _trying_ to get you kicked out? When you got closer (drawn in once more by the concern that he might be having an episode), you saw that it was only the cold water knob that was on.

He was alert, at least. You could tell that much. His head moved along with his eyes as he watched you draw nearer. Looking at him now, you did not think that he looked at all as though he were in the throes of any drug. Why, then, was he in the shower like this? Could it be that there really was something wrong other than him taking something and being hurt?

“What are you doing?” you asked gently. This time, you didn’t expect an answer. Clearly now was a bad time to push. You watched him for half a minute, then you bent slightly toward him, straightened, and twisted the hot water knob on. “You’ll catch cold.”

Never in your entire life had you seen a man look more like a puppy left out in the rain. Had he not been entirely wet, you might have thought he was crying. He didn’t open his mouth, but the clarity in his gaze left you feeling more hopeful than you had in several hours.

“Fifteen minutes. I’ll go make you breakfast, okay?” You pointed at the clock above the toilet.

He didn’t reply, but you didn’t care. First to get some food in his stomach. _Then_ you’d worry about what you were going to do with him.


	6. First

You made the breakfast you should have made for yourself for him. It was a little thought niggling at the back of your head. Skipping meals was a major no-no, and your bowl of cereal wasn’t enough to make up for last night’s missed dinner. Unfortunately, you had put off going to the grocery store lately (mostly because that would have been even more stuff to lug up three flights of stairs along with your furniture). You just didn’t have enough eggs and bacon for both of you. He looked like he needed a good meal a lot more than you did.

Cooking was something that came naturally to you–not that you were any great shakes at it, but it was an activity that kept your hands and mind occupied. Soon you were not so concerned with what was going on in your bathroom. The kitchen filled with popping and sizzling; aromas drifted through the air. You thought only once about the man, and that was only because the room was so dark. He had closed the blinds on the only window.

Extra money for utilities wasn’t something you just had laying around. After a few seconds of deliberation, however, you decided to let it be. His nightly wandering and the window thing combined made you think that there might be a reason behind his actions, and the last thing you wanted was an argument over some shutters–if your visitor even had a voice with which to argue in the first place, that was.

Scrambling eggs and frying bacon took enough attention away from you that you didn’t bother looking at the clock. What were you supposed to have done if he _did_ stay past the fifteen minutes anyway? You could no sooner have moved your bed frame alone than picked him up and forced him out of the tub. Come what may, you would have to trust him to follow the rules you’d set forth. Then the meal was done. You supposed you could no longer delay finding him, unless you wanted the food to get cold.

_Waste of a meal,_ you thought tiredly, adjusting the bacon on the plate. Why you were doing so, you didn’t know. You supposed he wouldn’t care much about the presentation of the food, and that was if he even cared to eat to begin with.

Plate in hand, you walked toward the living room. It was only slightly brighter than when you had first got up that morning. Perhaps this explained why you didn’t notice, upon realizing the bathroom down the hall was dark and quiet and turning back the way you’d come, that he was already there.

You gasped and nearly dropped the plate. He reacted not at all. If he didn’t start talking soon, you thought you might go insane, and then there would be _two_ crazy people inhabiting the place. Trying to cover up your fear with a laugh, you put the plate on the table in front of him. “You scared me.”

He was too busy observing the scrambled eggs to notice. You were not. While it shouldn’t have come as any surprise that he didn’t have a spare set of clothes in that pack of his, it was still a little jarring to find him still dripping in your living room. Your couch was soaked. A trail of boot-prints led across the carpet and back down the hallway. Even as you watched, water continued to run from his hair and onto the surrounding area.

When your eyes finally got back to his face, he was looking at you. Again, the intensity in his gaze was somewhat unsettling. You thought about running off to fetch a towel to start cleaning up just to avoid him. Then he opened his mouth.

“You…first.”

His voice sounded almost rusty, as though it had not seen much use in recent days. But you were too surprised at hearing him speak that you found yourself incapable of actually listening. You stared. And stared. And stared some more.

“What?” you asked at last.

He did not break his stare down with you even for a moment. His left arm lifted; he pointed at the plate. “You. First.”

“Me first _what_?”

“The eggs. You eat them first.”

Slowly, your forehead crinkled. He looked absolutely serious. You weren’t _that_ bad a cook. Were you? “What’s wrong with my eggs?”

This was very obviously the wrong thing to say. No sooner had you asked the question than did his eyes harden. More than anything else he had done over the past few hours, _this_ scared you. He lifted his fist into the air above the plate. You realized one split second later what he was about to do, and it was this split second that made all the different.

“Wait!” He stopped. His fist hovered two inches above the bacon and eggs for another thirty seconds. Then he twisted again in your direction, looking _really_ pissed off. Pissed? Where did this guy get off? “Holy crud. What the heck is wrong with you?”

Well, that certainly changed things. Now he didn’t look angry. Just confused. But you’d take that over the anger any day.

“I don’t even _know_ you. I let you into my house even _after_ you scare me following me home like that, and then I don’t call the police even after you rearranged all my furniture. You don’t say a word, spend who knows how long in my shower, and now you’re going to throw a tantrum because I made you scrambled eggs?” you went on.

You were back to square one: He stared, dumbstruck, all through your entire tirade.

“Maybe if you told me what you were looking for, I could have helped you find it. But no. And now you think I’m trying to poison you with eggs?” Without waiting for an explanation you were fairly certain wouldn’t come, you snatched the fork off the plate, scooped some eggs onto it, and jammed them into your mouth. The tension in his limbs drained away as he watched you chew. “Better?”

“Sorry,” he mumbled. All you did in reply was snort. Well, at least it was an apology, though you had no way of telling for what. At last he took his eyes off you and very oddly pulled the plate toward him with only tiny movements of his fingers. Watching him, you felt bad for shouting. There was clearly something wrong with the guy. You sighed and fussed with the back of your head.

“What do you want to drink?” you asked. “Milk or orange juice?”

He regarded you for a very long time. For a minute, you thought he’d forgotten entirely about his meal. A few blinks passed between you, and then: “Orange juice,” he answered, very cautiously. You released another breath and made to wander back to the kitchen. Then it occurred to you:

“You want a new fork, too?”

But too late. He was already shoveling bacon and eggs into his mouth as though he hadn’t seen food in days. If he heard you, he made no attempt at a reply. >i>‘Guess that’s a no,’ you thought. Back in the kitchen, you took some time to yourself to press your forehead against the cool refrigerator door. First the blinds, then his redecorating project, then his refusal to eat your food until you ate some in front of him. Something was going on. What had you gotten yourself into? More importantly, what were Georgianna and Kat going to do when they found out?


	7. Down

The eggs weren’t poisoned, sure. Maybe not the bacon either. But how the hell was he supposed to have any idea about the juice? He should have known better. Should have watched her pour that. Should have made her try all of the rest, too. What was the point of _being_ like this if he was only going to throw his freedom away? Because there had been something in that drink. There had to have been. He let fear and hunger cloud his judgment when they had taught him better, _told_ him better. She looked harmless. She acted harmless. But the food was gone, and he was tired, so tired.

And cold–colder than he’d ever felt in his entire life. The ice lashed at his face. He wasn’t dressed for this weather. Why? Why not? There was _something_ in it, wasn’t there? All he could remember was the fall, and this bitter cold, and the pain in his arm–not his arm; that was gone–the pain wouldn’t stop. It raged through his mind, louder than everything else–everything–everything but the voice:

“Come back, Sergeant Barnes. Come back.”

He pressed his lips together, so hard that they started to bleed, too. He couldn’t see through the wind and the snow and the pain and the sweat and the exhaustion. But he would keep going. He wasn’t going back through all that. No, no.

“We’re not done with you yet. Why are you running away?”

Running? This was _running_? He could only move forward one inch at a time, crawling and hurting and throbbing and bleeding. The way back was stained red. It would be easier to follow that backwards than to struggle on and on and on, and they were still calling:

“Come back, Sergeant Barnes.”

Who was that, he wondered. He had a feeling it was him–it had to be–there was no one else for miles and miles and miles–but he couldn’t–remember…

“Where are you going? We didn’t say you could leave. Come back!”

 _‘I will,’_ he thought, because he did not have the strength to answer aloud. _‘But I’m not done. I messed up. I messed up so badly.’_

The soldier on the bridge. He was still out there–where? The water? No. Not anymore. He had to find him. Right now. Take care of things. Complete the mission. He couldn’t go back until then. Couldn’t let them hurt him for it. He’d fix things, make them right, do things well. They wouldn’t hurt him then. Maybe they’d let him sleep. Even being put back in the box would be better than coming back having failed–again. When was the first time?

“Come back!” The voice cracked like a whip through his mind. He fell over, curled up, couldn’t move anymore. He hurt so much–his head–his arm–his side–everything. If returning would relieve this pain, maybe he _should_ go back. He was just so tired and cold and lonely.

No, no, this wasn’t right. He _wanted_ to leave. He _wouldn’t_ go back. Maybe he couldn’t remember why he had left anymore, but he wouldn’t give up just now. He had only started to try. Surely he had been through worse–somehow he felt that that was true–but he couldn’t remember–everything was a blank. If only he could know that they would give him the answers he so desperately wanted. Then maybe…maybe…

“I _said_ come back!”

“No!” The word burst out of him, and it hurt worse than anything else. It hurt just coming out, and then he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t see. “No! Get the hell away from me!”

“Who do you think you think _fixed_ you? Who do you think _created_ you? Get back here, and get back here now!”

He started to crawl again, blind and cold and throbbing all over. He couldn’t feel his fingers anymore. In fact, he wasn’t sure he could feel anything at all. Maybe just numb. But that was better than the alternatives. How far he made it before the voice came again, he didn’t know, but they were different, somehow, when they spoke once more.

“Come, Sergeant Barnes. It doesn’t have to be this way. We can make it all better. All of it.”

He paused–why–how? He wanted to go back. He wanted to go on. They sounded friendly now. Were they friends? Were they…different?

“Who else but us will take you? You _belong_ to us. Stop thinking. It’s easier that way.”

Easier, yes. Thinking was hard. Moving was hard. They could freeze him again, put him back to sleep. Then he wouldn’t have to deal with all this fear. There would be only the next mission. And the one after that. And the one after that. But…

“But I _knew_ him,” he whispered. His lips split again. He could taste the salty-sweet blood on his tongue. “I knew him. Didn’t I?”

“You know _nothing_. You know _no one_.”

This was very true. But still…he felt that his knowing that man was also true. He clung to that idea like a drowning man clutching at a life preserver. He knew _something_. One thing. It was enough. God, he was so tired.

“Who do you think is going to help you? _Him_? Don't hold your breath. You tried to _kill_ him–and _failed_. Don’t think he’ll return the favor.”

He kept going.

“Who do you think is going to help you?” they demanded again.

“I don’t…I don’t know.”

“Who do you think is going to help you?”

“I don’t know!” he shouted, and erupted upward. “I don’t know! I said I don’t know! Get the hell away!”

Suddenly, it was bright and warm again. His breath heaved in and out of his chest. Light spilled into his eyes, gold, not gray, and he hurt, but not as bad, and he could _see_ –see _her_. Right there. Right above him. Her face a blur. Had it been her talking? Had it been her calling him back? She had to be; no one else lived here; he had checked; but his mind was still buzzing and he couldn’t think and– _‘don’t do anything stupid’_ –too late, his hands were on the collar of her shirt, pulling her down as he pulled himself upward.

“Are you SHIELD?” His voice was a scream, and she might have been pale, maybe, but the important thing was _she didn’t answer_ , just spluttered, spluttered like some idiot that hadn’t thought their plan all the way through. “Are you SHIELD?!”

“No.” Her voice was calmer that it should have been. He remembered the eggs now. He didn’t let her go. “No, no I’m not. I’m not, I promise. You were screaming. Are you okay?”

No, he wasn’t okay! He couldn’t remember being okay, ever. Why couldn’t she _understand_ that? Was she _stupid_? She had to be. She let him into her house, and she was just some normal woman. No bugs. No guns. Nothing to protect herself. No. That couldn’t be right. He knew what he’d heard.

Maybe she _wasn’t_ lying. Maybe she _wasn’t_ SHIELD. He had to hurry, quick, because the darkness was coming back, and the cold and the exhaustion. His fingers were already loosening; he could not make them tighten if he tried.

“Hail…Hydra,” he whispered.

And then he went blessedly blank.


	8. Open

“A wound like this really ought to be seen at a hospital. Jesus H. _Christ_ what is this guy _in_ to?”

“Kat, shhh.”

“No, I will not shut the fuck up. This guy ought to know he’s ruining his own life. This is some of the worst shit I’ve seen in my entire career. How the fuck is he not dead?”

“I don’t know. He sleeps a lot.”

“That’s not a good sign. You know this. Why did you call me instead of the hospital?”

The words drifted slow and murky through his head. His brain throbbed at each. Just the gentle touch made him feel as though his skull were about to split wide open. Remembering was a struggle. Who was talking? Where were they? He couldn’t see.

“I couldn’t do that. I…”

That voice was softer. It sounded…familiar, a little. Some light started to return to him, but he still had no idea where he was.

“He’s clearly bad news. Want my advice?”

“I already know what it’s going to be.”

“Call the police. Get him out of here. Before he ruins _your_ life, too."

He felt something at his side: the quiet flick, flick of a needle through his skin. Suddenly his insides froze up. He had no idea where he was, and someone was operating on him, and if he did not do something quickly, they would hurt him. Hurt him like those scrambled eggs earlier. But…no. He was…fine? Was he fine?

“You’re right,” said the gentler voice. “I know you’re right.”

“But you’re not gonna listen to me.”

“I’m tired of doing nothing.”

“So your something’s gotta be getting yourself killed by a drug addict?”

Now the flicking was beginning to hurt. And then there were the drugs again. So there had been some in the juice? His mind raced, checking every bit of himself for signs of tampering. Nothing seemed amiss–except the pain across his abdomen. It hurt like a bitch still, but he supposed he should just consider himself lucky that the man on the bridge had stopped to push the collapsing aircraft off him. Unfortunately, it seemed he'd gone and landed himself in something far worse.

_“Wipe him.”_

No. Nothing could be worse than what he’d come from–unless the owners of the voices decided to take him back. Something in his mind steeled at that. No. _No_. He was _not_ going to let them take him anywhere. He’d kill them first. Only…

Only then he’d be right back where he started.

 _I don’t care. They can’t have me. I won’t_ let _them_ , he thought.

The voices around him went silent again. He counted the seconds; they all added up to five minutes. The pain at his side was almost as bad as it had been the night before. His cold shower hadn’t done anything to relieve it, nor had the hot water the woman added when she found him there, completely vulnerable. Why hadn’t she _done_ anything? She had him right where she wanted him. Maybe she was just waiting for backup–and now she had it.

Barely daring to move, he cracked open one eye. The light in the room was barred. She must have kept the shutters down. But _why_ , unless she knew that they were looking for him? And if she knew, he’d have to do _something_. He wasn’t going back. He wasn’t going back. He _wasn’t_ going back.

“How long do you expect to keep him here?” the harsher voice asked. He slid his eye more to the side. It was as though a sticky sort of film coated his vision. There was a head with long, dark hair in a strict braid, its face pointed down, right next to him. Another blurred figure sat farther away, and it was this figure to which the other voice belonged.

“I don’t know. I need to talk to him first…”

“He do much talking?”

The distant woman did not answer. He got the feeling she was watching him. Could she see that he was awake finally? It had been so damn stupid to let himself sleep so long, but it had taken him about an hour to check the house for bugs the night before. If only she’d let him look for them when he first got there. It wasn’t like they wouldn’t kill _her_ , too, to get to him. She’d only be one more bloody tally on his record.

It was a good thing she wasn’t terribly smart. It was a good thing she hadn't bothered checking on him. Otherwise he might have been in real trouble.

“He won’t… _die_ from those, will he?” asked the one with the nicer voice–the one, he recalled, that lived in the apartment. She sounded nervous. He had no idea why. She didn’t even know him, and all she’d done so far was blather about how he better not smoke and then yell at him for being suspicious of her cooking.

“I can’t tell that anything is _broken_ ,” answered the other woman. “Those are some really bad bruises, though. Guess if he hasn’t died from internal bleeding yet, he’ll probably be fine. This shouldn’t bleed anymore, anyway, now I’ve stitched it up.”

 _‘Stitched it up?’_ Had he not had days of training put into keeping himself calm and controlled, his heart would have started beating like mad, and then the entire game would be up. _Someone_ had touched him. Someone had fixed him. Someone he didn’t know. Worse still, they knew where he was.

The pain in his side subsided a little. The wet cushion next to him shifted, and the dark head lifted. He snapped his eye shut before they could notice it was open. He barely wanted to talk to the woman that had found him, let alone this complete unknown that might sell him out before the end of the hour. If only there weren’t any witnesses. Then he could just snap her neck. Move on. Find a safer alleyway.

“I know you don’t want to break your promise, but if he doesn’t wake up soon, you’ll need to get him real medical attention,” said the second woman. “And if he hurts you again, call the police. I don’t fucking care what you told him. I’d rather him rot in prison than do something to you.”

Hurt her…again? He racked his brain. Fuzzy images ran through his mind, but they were like grains of sand. He tried to hold them, but they passed through his fingers. There was waking up, finding the place empty–great, fantastic, maybe he could find some food and be on his way–getting distracted by the news–there was that man again, the one that said he knew him, and the people that wanted him, and they weren’t exactly all captured, were they?–the pain getting to be too much, stumbling to the shower, nearly passing out again, and then she was there and talking to him–in a soothing voice, not like everyone else, like she had no damn idea what he was–and turning on the water and feeding him and then…No, that was it. He had not hurt her. He would remember that. He had a pretty good recollection of how and why to hurt to people.

But she wasn’t as nice as she pretended, was she? It wasn’t hard to figure out she had been into some pretty bad shit. There were notes and reminders and a messy diary, and she had invited someone to see him, like some sort of sideshow. Well, maybe he _was_ a freak, but he was a freak capable of breaking her to pieces, and he wasn’t sure how to avoid that now that a second person was aware of his whereabouts.

“I’m not going to tell George about this.” The second voice was very far away now. He opened his eyes and the figures of both women were across the room. The dark-haired woman was already turning in the entryway; the first had her back turned toward him. Laboriously, he dragged himself to his feet.

“It’s on me.”

“You bet it is.”

The kind-voiced woman waved and waved, and he got closer and closer. Now his heart was really hammering, and it felt almost good, except that he could barely concentrate on the sensation. The other woman was loose in the world now and she could tell anyone anything. Damage control was the only thing that mattered–but he only knew how to _cause_ damage, not control it. She turned. His mind went blank; his arm swung up; she opened her mouth in a gasp and–

 _Wham!_ He managed it just in time. His monster arm swung away from her face and slammed instead into the door, denting it and sending cracks across its surface. She froze, and he, too startled by the fact that he had not crushed her, could only stare.

For another sixty seconds, everything was quiet. She didn’t try to get away. He drew in a long jagged breath. _Think! Use your brain! Use your words!_ But it was hard. So hard. It would be so much easier to just break her where she stood. He could make it look like someone else had done it. No one would know it had been him.

No. No more easy way.

“You have ten minutes tell me who you are and who that was,” he said raggedly. “Ten minutes– _then_ I’ll figure out what I’m going to do with you.”


	9. Question

She wasn’t scared. Holy hell, she wasn’t scared. The sound of the door cracking beneath his fist lingered on in the air, and she did not so much as twitch. Her eyes remained locked onto his so steadily that it almost made him want to look away. Just when he thought he might _have_ to, someone knocked–and that didn’t startle her either. Only him.

“Is everything okay in there?” asked a woman out in the hallway.

“Fine,” she called, still watching him. “I dropped something. Sorry!”

His breath caught in his throat, though he did not move either. He kept his arm exactly where it was, stiff and straight as a ramrod. Both of you stood precisely where you were, he waiting for the person outside to force entry, her…he didn’t know. Seconds passed. Another slowly counted minute. Footsteps fading away. A bead of sweat rolled down one side of his face.

When she finally opened her mouth, she had eight minutes left:

“There better be a really good reason why I’m lying for you.”

Maybe he was just desperate–no, he _knew_ he was desperate–or maybe he just needed some sort of sign to tell him he wasn’t already in over his head, but he thought he saw her eyes flicker. There. Fear. But not the right kind. The memories were hazy, terrifyingly so, but there was another woman that had seen him recently. Someone more capable than the woman in front of him, though not capable enough. They never were. But the red-head _ran_. She could fight, and yet she _ran._ Not this woman. No. She stood her ground.

“I’m waiting,” she said.

Shit. It was getting harder to talk again. He hadn’t had to use his voice regularly in…God, how long had it been? He’d talked more in the past week or so than he had in years, decades, centuries, whatever it was. He didn’t need his voice. He just needed to follow orders like _Come back._

The metal fist still half-buried in the door tightened. Yes, he was supposed to go back. He was always supposed to go back. What was he doing here, standing in an apartment, trying to have a conversation with some stupid woman, when he had a long walk ahead of him? He had already wasted so much time.

“Hail Hydra.”

That knocked him out of it, out of everything. He lost count, lost the thread of conversation, lost his own thoughts. The words–coming from someone he’d thought was utterly harmless–startled him so badly that his mouth started moving again. It gaped open and closed, open and closed, open and closed, until he was nearly prepared to snap his own neck just to avoid looking moronic longer. After a few more tries, however, he was able to twist himself back into the present. He forced his mouth to open and stay that way, and strained until _something_ would come out of him.

“W…what?”

“Hail Hydra,” she said again, and he winced automatically. “That’s what you said.”

“ _What_?” Better. Disdain sounded better than his previous broken rasp. Her eyebrows fell into a line. He tried to scoff at that, but he seemed to have forgotten derision on top of everything else.

“Yes, you did.”

“No.”

“You started thrashing around in your sleep, screaming for someone to let you go, and then I woke you up and you said ‘Hail Hydra.’”

“No, I didn’t!” Finally, he got something out of her. His shout made her flinch, and at once some feeling of power returned to him. It wouldn’t take much to move his hand to her throat and crush her windpipe. He would have to kill her, to go back. Unless _she_ was back? She spouted the same phrase as they did.

_“Wasting our time! Making us go after you! You always return. If someone gets in your way, tear them apart!”_

He let out a strangled cry and tore his arm away from her. The blows in his memory stung almost as bad as they had during that lesson. Grinding his teeth, he forced himself to look away, anywhere but at the woman. His effort was for nothing. He could _feel_ her behind him.

“God!” he burst out, and clapped one hand to his forehead. “Do you know how hard it is not to _kill_ you right now?” Because they were inside him–in his head–and they wanted her dead. _He_ didn’t want her dead. She didn’t run away. She gave him food. She was _nice_. But if he didn’t…

“I know if you keep shouting things like that, someone will call the police and get them over on a call about domestic abuse.”

“I could kill you before they got here.” His voice sounded breathless to his own ears. “I could kill all of them when they did. You have _no_ idea what I’m capable of.” Or what they were calling him to do: to clean up the mess he’d made and book it back to base. The news this morning had made it clear that they were being rounded up. They needed his help.

He didn’t want to give it.

Did he?

_“Sergeant Barnes…”_

“That’s not me! Go away!” His fingers tangled in his hair; his eyes screwed up. Still he couldn’t get that voice out of his head. Escape was not as easy as he’d thought, and he hadn’t thought it would be easy to begin with. The call was only getting _louder_ and if he couldn’t resist…he couldn’t resist…he shouldn’t resist…

“Hey!”

He looked up. Somehow, he had fallen to the floor. He felt cold, terribly cold, and the skin around the hunk of metal grafted to his body ached–but he knew where he was, and he recognized the face above him. When the person it belonged to saw that he was aware, their expression fell into a scowl.

“You know, when you said that whole Hydra thing, I could have called someone. I should have. I just didn’t want you to wake up alone somewhere with someone breathing down your neck about something you might have overheard on the television.”

The effort it took to keep calm took so much from him that he could only lay there, breathing heavily.

“But if you’re going to keep using, then you need to _get out_.”

“I…I can’t.”

“What do you mean you can’t?”

If she was telling the truth–if she hadn’t told–but she would have told her friend–no he couldn’t tell her. No, he couldn’t kill her. No, he couldn’t leave. What was there that he _could_ do? All he wanted was to scream, but she was right. That would only get the cops called, and anyone from either group would be able to tell some ordinary woman wasn’t capable of taking out a couple of police officers and herself in less than ten minutes. While he was being working all of this out, she was watching him with an intensity that unsettled him entirely.

“Who are you?” she asked.

Tears sprang suddenly into his eyes. Before he could stop them, they ran down his cheeks. Her own eyes widened, and then the words were tumbling from his lips: “I don’t know. I don’t know. Don’t ask me. I don’t know.”

“You don’t know who you _are_?”

But he couldn’t answer. Now that he had started crying–which he couldn’t remember doing since…since…a fall? Had there been a fall?–he couldn’t seem to catch his breath.

“He said he knew me, but I left and I can’t find him. He wasn't at the museum. I don't know where else to look.”

“Find who?”

That was all he could say. Pulling the man out of the water had been all he had been able to manage then. When he’d realized that that man might have been his only chance, he had been too late. All he had to go on was the museum, and there were too many people there, and even after he had rid himself of all those firearms, he was too dangerous. Too dangerous to stay. Too dangerous to go. Returning to his handlers was becoming a more and more tempting idea.

"Hey, hey," she said, touching his shoulder, the horrible one, the one that belonged to him in terrible ways. "Shhhhh. It's okay. I know it's hard. Withdrawals and all. Did you take something while I was gone?"

There she went again on her drug thing. What, she took a few and suddenly everyone in the world was an addict? Did addicts normally have the strength to break apart doors like that? She was waiting for an answer. Slowly, he shook his head. Her shoulders visibly relaxed.

"But you can't remember where your home is?"

"I don't have a home."

"What about with that person?"

He shook his head again. She did what she always did during lengthy silences: chewed her lower lip and played with her hair. Her eyes darted back and forth across the room as she stiffened again. Then she got so quickly to her feet that he actually started.

"We'll find him," she said. "I promise."

It was an incredibly stupid promise to make, but it suited him perfectly fine. At the very least, it bought him some time. Maybe that's why he didn't even try to protest when she disappeared into the kitchen and left him still lying on the floor.


	10. Refresh

The Soldier came to on a worn beige carpet set atop a hard, grainy wood floor. Every inch of its body ached, but that was no different than usual. If they let it sleep instead of freezing it, it normally woke up sore. It could not recall being frozen. In fact, it could not recall much of anything at all from before it fell asleep. This was puzzling, or it would have been, if it could feel puzzlement. As things were, it couldn’t, so the Soldier simply stayed where it was. There must have been a reason for them leaving it there on the floor.

They might ask questions later, though. It would need to have processed the answers. What _could_ the Soldier remember from last time it was awake? There had been…a dark room. They worked on its damaged arm and that hurt, so it had attacked them. Was that why they left it here like this? To remind it that it was not to attack anyone unless directed to or they got in the way? But no. Pierce had been there. Pierce had _already_ punished it. Punishment, wipe, directive. They needed it to do one more thing. And after?

There was no after. Straining for memories the Soldier knew it would need soon, it could not dredge up anything _about_ its directive. Take out Captain America, Sam Wilson, Maria Hill, Natasha Romanoff. Make sure Project Insight went through. Get rid of SHIELD. Put HYDRA in its proper place. It remembered that much, but not completing the mission. It must have, though. It was still here; it was still in one piece. They had left it here to wake up relatively painlessly. They wouldn’t do that if they didn’t trust it.

Trying to force recollection did nothing. Try as it might, it got nothing but vague pictures of chaos: planes and men with wings and a blurred man in blue. The images meant nothing to it. Whatever had happened, it had lost it, and it could not dredge up any feelings about that. Sometimes it forgot more than they meant it to when they wiped it too hard. When someone showed up to talk to it about the new assignment, it would just have to play along. They could get mad and hit it again. It already hurt all over. What was one more bruise?

“Are you awake?” If it had not been coming out of hibernation mode, it might have attacked. The woman above it did not have a face it recognized, nor a voice, nor a figure, nor a tell. She looked normal, but they all could, couldn’t they? That was the point. As harmless as the new handler looked, it did not doubt that she could kill as easily as the others. It stared at her, waiting for instructions that never came. A flash of white appeared at the edge of her bottom lip. “You fell asleep there. I wasn’t sure what to do.”

It blinked. Sleep? The Soldier hardly slept. Sleep was a foreign concept. They hardly ever let it truly sleep. Normally they stuffed it into cryo until they needed the Soldier again, and then let it run until its body collapsed around itself. Even that happened rarely, as it was used to going for days and days without rest or sustenance. It could not feel tired or hungry. There was no _point_ to sleep.

“Um. Laying there is probably a really bad idea. No offense, but you’re too heavy for me to carry. Could you…sit on a chair or something?”

Sit. A direct order. Ignoring the raging pain in its abdomen, it dragged itself up and then collapsed into a nearby chair.

She winced. “ _Please_ be careful. You don’t want your stitches opening, do you? Kat will have to come back.”

Kat. It stared at her, thinking, subconsciously following the order to be careful. There had been a Kat on STRIKE once, years ago. Rumlow had taken a liking to her. Let her make mistakes. That wouldn’t do. The Soldier had to take care of her. She could not have survived that. Had she? Was that why it was there in alien territory with no explanation? But–the blood. Kat was a common enough name. No. This was a different Kat the new handler was talking about. She _had_ to be. Even back then, the Soldier did not fail.

“Okay, so, we’re back to not talking,” the woman observed as she sat down on a short table opposite it.

Talking? She wanted it to talk? No. This was a test. It would not fail. She waited for a long minute, but the Soldier kept its mouth shut. All it had to do was wait for the new mission objective. When she drew in a long breath through her nose, it thought the directives were finally coming.

Instead she said, “Look, I know I said I’d help you find your friend, but that’s going to be really hard if you don’t have anything to go on. DC is a big place. The rest of the world is even bigger.”

Friend? It stared at her questioningly. The Soldier did not have friends. It had handlers. They were _not_ the same thing. How would it even go about having friends?

“Surely there’s _someone_ you remember from before,” she prompted it, fingers drumming against the edge of the table. What an odd choice for a cover: a nervous young woman with wide eyes and several tics. No one would expect her, though–not even the Soldier, unless they told it to. More importantly, she had finally got to the meat of things. She wanted to see what it remembered. Thankfully she had started with an easy question.

“Pierce,” it answered.

Slowly, her features crumpled. Though she might have tried to hide it, her eyes darted toward the television and back to the Soldier. It kept its gaze trained steadily at her, waiting, watching. “Pierce,” she repeated. “You mean Alexander Pierce?”

Did she think it entirely incapable? The Soldier nodded.

“Did you see the news this morning?”

This morning the Soldier had been on its way to the Triskelion. How could it have watched the news? The Soldier _was_ the news. Besides, Pierce had been right there with it. There had been no cameras, no news people. They were not allowed to see the Soldier. The Soldier was not supposed to exist.

The new handler must have taken its silence for a no. It tensed in preparation for a blow, but none came. She simply frowned and cocked her head slightly to the left.

“Alexander Pierce is _dead_ ,” she said. “Two shots to the chest. There's been a hearing about it. The woman that did it testified.”

Its eyes widened at that news. All of a sudden, the Soldier felt an overwhelming surge of relief. Relief? What was relief? The sensation was overtaken quickly by _fear_. Failure. The Soldier had _failed_.

No. That was Rumlow’s failure. The Soldier could not be in two places at once. Its job had been the Helicarriers. Rumlow had been assigned to protect Pierce. _Traitor_. The Soldier made the note in its mind: Find Rumlow. Take him out.

Once that had been decided, its attention returned to the woman before it. All emotions were gone, as though the Soldier had never felt them–and it was fairly certain it never had. What did Pierce’s death matter? “Cut off one head. Two more will take its place,” it intoned.

Apparently this was the wrong answer; she only bit her lip again.

“How long were you watching the TV this morning?” she asked.

Since it had not been watching anything that morning–which she should _know_ ; surely they had _told_ her how efficient it was–the Soldier did not answer.

“Do you know anyone that _hasn’t_ been brought up on the news lately?”

“Rumlow.”

Her lips pursed together. “No, they've talked about a Rumlow, too. He’s in the hospital being treated for third degree burns.” As she considered the Soldier for another three minutes and twenty-eight seconds, her eyes widened more and some of the color drained from her cheeks. It expected her to explain, but no explanation was forthcoming. In a split-second, she was on her feet, pacing away from it, her palm pressed flat to the skin of her forehead. “He _can’t_ have taken anything. He’s been asleep on the floor for _hours_. But then–”

The Soldier sat completely still as she neared again. Her agitation seemed odd to it, but it did not have any right to say so. This was all part of her plan and she would reveal that plan to the Soldier when she decided it was ready. Her mouth opened and closed a few times, though no sound came out. Why she was pretending to be a terrified girl, the Soldier had no idea, but that was not so strange. It did not have ideas of its own.

“I–You’re not–”

Without a question or an order, the Soldier could not help her. It simply watched, unmoving as she had directed it to be several minutes ago. Then she took another deep breath. Her next question would have startled it, if the Soldier could do something like be startled:

“Do you want dinner?”

Want? Where did want come into things? The Soldier did not want things. It was incapable of having desires, dreams, or goals of its own. If she told it to eat, it would eat. If not, it would wait until she chose to feed it. Things were that simple. Was this part of her act too?

Upon receiving no answer, her previously stiff shoulders relaxed. “Fine,” she muttered, and turned away. “I’ll make something and you can look into eating it when I’m done. Until then just…just try to think of people you know.”

Another order. When she left, the Soldier _tried_ to follow it. Unfortunately, it didn’t know much of anyone. It hadn’t for a very long time.


	11. Problems

_“Hail Hydra.”_

_“Cut off one head. Two more will take its place.”_

Work come Monday certainly wasn’t easy with these two phrases ringing through your mind. Every time someone came up to your desk, you jumped. You half-expected one of them to whip out a pair of handcuffs and drag you off to jail. _He’s a fugitive,_ you thought every time you had even a thirty second break from answering the phone or jotting down a message or filing some paperwork. _I’m harboring a fugitive._

It all added up: following you after you said you wouldn’t call the police; looking through your apartment; talking in monosyllables; knowing only people that had been arrested for being a part of HYDRA. His odd fits made sense, too. You never, not even once, saw him take anything. After crying at you for a little bit–earning another promise of help that you realized soon after you could never manage on your own–he passed out there on your living room floor. When he woke up, it was as though he had been replaced by someone entirely different. He could not have taken any more drugs; his bag remained untouched where he had deposited it next to the sofa. Besides, you had watched him lie there the entire time.

Was this all just a ploy to get himself a place to hide?

Every time your brain hit that question, your intestines cramped in answer. No. You had to give him the benefit of the doubt. _Something_ was wrong. If he was trying to hide, that alleyway was going to do him absolutely no good at all. If _you_ had seen him, anyone else could have. He’d been shaking then, and even with steady hands on Sunday seemed terribly off. It almost felt like living with a robot. Once he’d finally woken up after that crying jag of his, he’d remained even more reluctant to speak than before. All he did was sit and stare. If you told him to eat, he would, but that was about it for activity on your guest’s part. You weren’t even sure if he was _sleeping_ now, since both mornings since you had awoken to find him sitting in that exact same chair, staring blankly into the air before him.

Around the time you got to this thought process again, you would take a deep breath–not that that helped. Soon you would be worrying if he was going to die after all. You felt well and truly trapped. Either he was on the run, or he was going to die of whatever had caused that mess of bruises and cuts and welts across his stomach and chest. The end result was the same: You, in jail.

But even with that in mind, and the knowledge that you finally had a nice, secure job as a secretary at a law firm and you’d been clean for longer than you’d ever been clean before and Karen trusted you enough to leave you alone with some strange man, the memories of _why_ you’d got into drugs to begin with kept returning. The only child born to an older man, surrounded by dozens of more successful cousins, listening to stories of parents and uncles and men you could never dream of living up to, you never really felt connected to the crowd around you. You hated to fail, but compared to your extended family made up of adults having children of their own, that was all you could do.

You never meant it to be a habit. It was just supposed to be an occasional thing, a way to numb your raging feelings of inadequacy and disconnect. That plan didn’t work out. Pretty soon the drugs were a constant, not an occasional, and instead of being softhearted, you couldn’t feel anything at all about anything, unless it was anger or fear.

Kat really had the right of things. This guy, whoever he was and whatever was wrong with him, was dredging up the same sort of feelings. You _wanted_ to help. You pitied him, even, but the longer he stayed, the more you felt you were just making things worse. How were you supposed to find someone that even your visitor didn’t remember? It would be like looking for a needle in a haystack. Unless that was the point and he was just pretending to buy time staying in your apartment…

It was a frazzled kind of day, where time seemed to skitter by for one hour and then drag its feet the next. Your brain went in loops, and if you hadn’t been one-hundred percent committed to the job, you likely could not have managed working as much as you did that day. By the time five o’ clock came around, you were so busy wondering how you were going to explain your request for phone books to Georgianna that you didn’t realize it was time to leave.

“[Name]?”

“Huh? Wha–Oh.” You smiled up at one of your bosses, hoping that would cover for being frightened at her appearance.

That plan fell through; she only frowned. “Are you okay?”

It would not do to lie, but it would not do to tell her the truth either. You tried your best for a compromise and said honestly, “I didn’t get a lot of sleep last night.”

“Well,” she gestured with her blonde head toward the door, “it’s 5:15. Your shift is over. Clock out, go home, and get some sleep.”

With that, she disappeared back down the hallway to her office. You stared after her until it registered that it was _5:15_. You were supposed to have met Georgianna in the parking lot twenty minutes ago! Why hadn’t she texted? Snatching up your phone from where it sat in the top drawer of your desk, you saw that she had:

_“I’m here! Got your phonebooks and a mad need to understand why you wanted one from all the places I get calls from.”_

_“Did you run off because you don’t want to explain? You should have got off five minutes ago and you’re usually pretty prompt.”_

_“Is everything okay?”_

_“Where are you?”_

_“If you haven’t answered me in two, I’m coming up there.”_

The last had been sent one minute ago. Not that you would get in trouble for having a friend meet you at your desk, but you would prefer Georgianna to _not_ run up in a tizzy. That would only make your coworkers wonder what was going on. Your heart banged rapidly about your chest, though you managed to grab the rest of your things and make it to the door without showing any outward signs of panic. Once you made it the stairs, however, you sprinted, bursting out into the sunset-stained parking lot. Georgianna was half out of her vehicle before you could catch your breath.

“You okay?” she wanted to know.

“Fine!” you said, perhaps a little shrilly.

It had been a long four days. _That’s your own fault. You should have listened to George at the museum and let him go. Now if you tell her she’ll be an accomplice, and if you don’t,_ she’ll _kill you when she finds out._ Your muscles were too stiff. Georgianna would never believe you were fine.

Taking a deep breath, you forced your limbs to relax and your mouth to widen into a smile. “I’m fine. Sorry I didn’t answer you. I totally spaced at the end of my shift.”

“And your bosses are okay with that?” she asked.

You shook your head. “I’m not doing anything important like you are.”

“Yeah, answering phone calls all day. _That’s_ important." Georgianna rolled her eyes. "Speaking of, I bought all those phone books. Turned out we had about twelve of them sitting around from last year.” She led you to the trunk of her car, and you trailed in her wake feeling utterly drained. As if to prove she hadn’t lied about the phone books, she pulled several out. “There are probably repeats. You really sure you want all of them?”

“Yes. Thank you, George. Thank you _so_ much.”

Your incredible gratitude for the gift of outdated phone books was the first thing that seemed to really cause Georgianna to become suspicious. “What do you need them for anyhow?”

You were halfway through telling her the story about the little boy down the hall collecting them for school when you just couldn’t do it anymore. You were too tired and stressed out to lie anymore. One of your hands lifted to knuckle into an eye. “Just…Just a project. I’m looking for someone that I _think_ is in this area, but I’m not sure.”

“Really? Who?”

“I–” There was no way to answer this without lying, and again you wondered why you were lying for a man that had threatened to kill you two days ago and had nearly broken a plate because you had the audacity to cook him eggs. “Someone my dad might have known. Thought it’d be nice to talk to him.”

“You mean Captain Rogers? Doesn’t he already come by sometimes?”

“Not Captain Rogers.” You sighed. “It’s dumb, but it gives me something to do. If you’ll help me stack them on my arms, I’ll get them home.”

“You are _not_ walking home carrying twelve phone books,” Georgianna said flatly. “Get in the car.”

A single second of pause followed her command. Getting a ride home with her meant more time in her company, wherein she could ask questions and maybe find out you had a crazy person in your house–maybe. Yes, maybe. You had been gone for nine whole hours. Maybe he had just left…

“A ride would be nice,” you allowed.

It did not take long for the two of you to get settled, and then Georgianna was driving down the street in the direction of your home. You closed your eyes and allowed your head to loll against the chair’s rest, thinking that this might get her to forgo questioning you further. You had no such luck. Five minutes later, she clicked the radio off.

“So Karen said you had someone over Friday?”

“Yes?” You drew the word out, long and high, as you sat up again. Clearly feigning sleep was getting you nowhere.

If Georgianna had not spent several years receiving calls from frantic mothers about car accidents their children got in, you were certain her eyes would have been on you rather than the road, and nearly as intense as the man in your apartment’s. For whatever reason, she did not press the issue as she parked in front of your apartment building. Karen must have okayed your visitor with George and not told her anything else–something for which you were immensely grateful. You were equally grateful for Georgianna’s continued silence. Eager for it to continue, you hopped out of the car without prompting before making your way to the back for your books.

“Do you need help carrying those up?” she asked.

Your eyes shot up to meet hers. “No. I’m good.”

You had never been more suspicious in your entire life. Georgianna was going to call your sponsor, you just knew it. But there was no backing out now. She could _not_ come inside your home. Even if your house guest had finally vanished, there would be no avoiding the extra plates in the sink or the sheets on the couch. She would _know_ and then you would be in so much more trouble than you were with George only suspecting.

“Thanks for the ride, and the help. Bye!” you called as you shut her trunk. Your words were likely too rushed to be understood, but you hardly cared. All you wanted to do was go home, curl up on the couch with some microwave soup, and watch interesting, unupsetting television– _not_ the news. If you heard “HYDRA” one more time, you thought you might vomit.

Unfortunately, none of those plans were going to come through. You opened the door, hand shaking slightly underneath the weight of all the paper piled on top of your arms, and you found to your growing lack of surprise that the man hadn’t left. In fact, he had not moved at all. Nothing in your apartment had been shifted. The television was not on. Not a single noise issued from the living room. For all you could tell, he had done nothing all day long but stay in that chair and watch the sun crawl up and down the wall, just like he had been doing since Saturday afternoon.

“Um,” you said for what felt like the umpteenth time. 

_That_ he reacted to…barely. His eyes swiveled away from the wall to find your face. He did not make any noise whatsoever. Goodness, he made you tired. That thought made you feel immediately guilty. _It’s not his fault,_ you thought, but the thought was weary anyway.

"Come into the kitchen." You gestured toward the table. "We’ve got work to do.”

It did not escape your notice that he staggered slightly when he stood, like his legs had long since gone to sleep. Still, he did exactly as you said…just like he had since waking up on the floor two days before. This was concerning, to say the least, but by that point you were just too tired to care.


	12. Lost and Found

How long had it been out?

Almost as soon as the question occurred to it, the Soldier squashed it down. What was it doing, asking questions? Questions were not allowed. Questions were only a request to be beaten or wiped. Those it could endure, but why induce them? So far its new handler had not seemed inclined to hurt it. Perhaps that was because it was already hurt, and she was waiting for it to heal. Not that it mattered. Pain would come eventually. It always did.

She had asked it to stand, so stand it did. Its legs hurt. Its legs hurt worse than they had in years–back when they were first testing it–back when they were showing it who it really was. They would leave it for days without food, without water, without company, without rest, and when it finally learned that it could- _must-_ do without, without question, without notice, without complaint, _then_ the Soldier was complete. It was ready. It could begin the job it was created to do.

A cold sweat flashed across the Soldier’s skin, so fast that it was probably just a glitch. But the thought was still there: Was she starting it from the beginning? Had the Soldier botched an assignment so badly that they had sent it to her for reprogramming? Was _that_ what it had forgotten when it woke up here in this apartment?

It did not _want_ reprogrammed.

Want? Where did want come into this? Where did the Soldier pick up the idea that it could want or not want anything? If they decided that it needed retaught, then what right did it have to say “no”? It could say _yes ma’am_ , or nothing at all. The Soldier even considering its own wants was proof enough that reprogramming was necessary. Did it _want_ to fail again? That was the question the Soldier ought to have been asking itself. Glitches had been coming more and more often as of late. The man on the–

No.

It would not go back to that. It would not go back to the way it had been. It would not. It would not. It would not. It would–

She was still watching it, with those disconcerting eyes of hers. They held no hint of the brutality of past handlers, though it understood that a cover could not change one’s core. The Soldier would admit that she _fed_ it, but wasn’t that a kind of punishment, too? Tasteless lump after tasteless lump when an IV would be more efficient. Then she left it in the same position for days and days only to ask it to stand and walk to her on legs that wanted to give out. But it would show her. A weapon had no need to _feel_. It _would_ walk to her.

Easier commanded than done. It felt stiff, so stiff. Recollection came to it of being commanded to put one foot in front of the other, one at a time, only when told, but that was not what this new woman wanted. She wanted it _there_ , and no amount of hovering by the table looking _nervous_ could convince it otherwise. The Soldier knew there was no nervousness here, only impatience. They were always impatient. One leg moved. Then the other. Again. Again. Again. Slow though the Soldier’s progress might have been, it would make it. And it did.

_"Come into the kitchen,"_ she had said. Here it was. The Soldier stood there, watching her watching it with those horrible eyes. Alexander Pierce did not pretend to be what he was not, not to the Soldier. Its eyes narrowed. Perhaps this handler had something to hide.

The sound of her clearing her throat snapped the Soldier away from such insubordinate thoughts. This was why weapons did not _have_ thoughts. Any it might have were foolish, inane, not to be considered. Again it waited. She made the habitual movement of fidgeting with her hair, then opened her hands toward the chair.

“Please,” she said, “sit.”

A please did not keep this from being an order. It sat. A stack of tattered telephone books was place beside its arm. These it ignored. Information was not its to receive without being instructed to. Instead it continued to observe her. She continued to observe it. Two minutes passed in such a manner before she turned around, facing the counter so that it could no longer read her expression.

“What am I _doing_?” she muttered.

“You are giving me my assignment,” it answered automatically.

She turned back around with a speed that might have impressed it. The small space between them disappeared quickly with her working limbs. “You can…talk?” she asked.

The Soldier inclined its head. Was that not obvious? It had spoken to her before, when prompted. Only when prompted. Otherwise, it might talk more than it ought to.

“Assignment?” she repeated.

“You said we had work to do. What work? I require only orders.”

“ _Orders_?” her voice rose quickly.

What was it about the Soldier that upset her so? She only had to tell it to change for it to do so. Perhaps they had not told her everything about it, or the way it worked. They seemed to have decided to teach it a lesson. There must be something here, something about this woman, that it was supposed to learn from.

She slid into the chair beside it, letting out a quiet sigh. “I just thought maybe you’d help me look through the phone books. That's all.”

Help? In all its long years of existing, the Soldier could never recall being commanded to _help_. It had tasks and parameters, and it did them without fail. _Help_ indicated that it could function in beneficial way toward things _others_ were assigned to do–or that, worse still, she was not superior to the Soldier in any way at all.

When she added nothing more, the Soldier had no choice. It took the first book in its hands, dropped it on the table, and flipped over to the front page. _“Look through the phone books.”_ Its eyes found the first word and it began to read. Swiftly, the Soldier’s eyes scanned the pages, word after word, line after line, advertisement after advertisement. Read, memorize, condense. Read, memorize, condense.

It stopped when a hand covered what it was reading. She was looking at it again, a small frown on her face. Had the Soldier displeased her?

“How do you know if you know them if you’re going that fast?” she asked.

The Soldier frowned this time. Was it wrong to be doing what it was? She had said to look through the book. The Soldier was looking. _She_ was not, it had noticed. Perhaps help was just a turn of phrase, but how could it know for sure? It was completely unbalanced by this woman. She did not act as the others acted.

“What are the parameters?” it asked.

“Parameters?” she echoed, a deeper frown wrinkling the soft skin between her brows.

“What do you wish me to look for?” it asked in clipped tones. It had never had to hold its handler's hand before.

The frown on her face wiped away entirely to be replaced by a look of shock. “Your friend,” she said. “The one you told me about this weekend.”

“I do not have a friend.”

“You _do_!” she insisted.

All it could do was cock its head to the left. Who was this new assignment? Who was it to call friend if asked? The new handler was acting as if she had already given the Soldier this information, and it had _forgotten._ Had she before it had woke up on the floor? Was it truly malfunctioning that badly?

“Repeat parameters,” it requested, bracing itself to be hit.

The strike never came. Instead, her face just crumpled all over again. It had to admit that it was curious. No, curiosity was a sin. Curiosity was not to be allowed. Curiosity killed the cat. Killed the handler. Killed the Soldier. Where had that come from?

The man. On the bridge. He was ruining _everything_. The Soldier had to kill him. Rend him limb from limb. Prove that it could. The man was its–no _his_ mission. No, not a mission, a–No. Not that path. Not again. Too much pain. Too much. But the pain was worth it. It wasn’t. It must–He must–It–He–It– _He_ –


	13. Pride

“Shit!” he swore, just as he tried to rise from his seat.

This was a bad idea. His damn legs nearly gave out on him. Before he fell, he managed to scrabble at the nearest hard surface, catching himself right before hitting the floor. He tasted blood; his lips had split open from the violence of his swearing, and he could see his breath crystallizing in the air in front of him. Shivers wracked his body, and he was cold, so cold.

A hard blink dispelled this vision. The tear in his lip disappeared, though his mouth now felt like cotton, like the frost had got stuck in there, unwilling to enter the warm, stuffy kitchen. But the trembling had not stopped. He shivered and shuddered, fingers slipping against the slick wood of the table as he attempted to keep himself upright.

So they could pull him back that easily.

He let out a long, uneven breath. Shit. No. No. He was a _person_. Bled just like the rest of them. Froze just like the rest of them. God, why was he so cold? His breath was stuck in his chest. They couldn’t have him back. He would not go back.

Thin arms snaked around his torso. He felt his chest seize underneath them. Unthinkingly, he released his slipshod grip on the table. For one glorious moment, the results were exactly as he’d planned: The arms did not have the strength to hold him up on their own. Heave as they might, they simply couldn’t keep him there. Then he went crashing onto the tile floor, right on top of his flesh arm.

“God _dammit_!”

“Are you okay?”

He looked up, slightly startled to hear a familiar voice. Of course. Of course he wasn't on the side of some mountain. He was still stuck in the crappy apartment. Where else was he supposed to go? They were everywhere looking for him, waiting for him. But when she knelt next to him, worry plain in her eyes, he wondered if it might have been worth it to be on his own if he just didn’t have to see that expression on that face ever again.

Not quite.

Her fingers fluttered so close as to nearly brush his shoulder. If this was on purpose, she realized the folly of such action just in time, stopping herself a mere millimetre short. “I’m so–I’m so sorry. Are you alright?”

“Do I _look_ alright to you?” he snarled.

God, she’d almost touched him, or rather the hunk of metal grafted to his shoulder. Surely it felt as cold to the touch as the rest of him ought to have been. She’d feel it; she’d know. He’d already screwed up enough to make her suspicious. Maybe she was stupid, but no one was _that_ stupid. Then again, if she _did_ manage to piece everything together, he could just snap her neck before she had the chance to call anyone. It would probably take a few days for her little friends to come hunting for her. He could be out of the country and hidden by then.

“Hey…” she began.

“Leave me alone!" he snapped. "Can’t you see I want to be alone?”

This was not strictly true. It wasn’t like he’d _had_ to follow her home. No memories and no company made for lonely living, it had found. _He_ had found.

Shit.

The chill was in his very bones. He curled ludicrously in on himself, as though that would somehow crack the ice in his veins. A high whine filled his ears. Now that he was conscious, it was becoming more painfully obvious by the second what effect the past three days had had on him. His chest and side felt a little better, somehow, but the rest of him felt fit to explode. No sleeping, no moving, no bathroom breaks. Really? She didn’t have enough brain cells to rub together to suggest he take a piss? Not that he wanted to spend the short remainder of his life following “suggestions,” but in this case…

“What are you doing?” Her panicked voice cracked above the whine. “Is this a seizure? Should I call Kat? Stop! Please stop. Oh–just–where’s my phone?”

Her frantic step didn’t get her very far. His metal hand clamped around her ankle.

“Don’t. Call. Anyone,” he growled, and as he did, the droning stopped. Oh. That had been coming out of _him_? No time to consider that. He tightened his grip and yanked, causing her to stumble in his direction. “Don’t _call_.”

She tried to get her foot back. When that failed, she shot him her fiercest look, the kind she seemed to normally save for insults to her scrambled eggs. “You’re sick!” she said.

“I’m not!” he insisted. He kept his voice down, though. No reason to get the neighbors riled up. She'd said it herself.

“You’re shaking on my floor and whimpering like a kicked dog,” she shot back, still trying to squirm out of his grasp. “I saw your injuries. It’s a miracle you’re even alive.”

Maybe not so much a miracle. Not when compared to everything else he’d been through. When your insides and outsides were twisted as badly as his were, an aircraft carrier crashing on top of you was nothing. He’d take that over going back in the damn chair any day. No, he would not be distracted. She was still twisting around. Kick. Kick. Kick.

She was free. Panting, but free. “I’m calling an ambulance.”

He was too out of breath to protest. Every inch of him trembled with the effort of keeping himself together. The pain in his bladder and head was tremendous, and his sudden terror wasn’t helping. No. Dammit, _no_. He had not come this far only to be retrieved by whichever one of them was playing EMT today. If he set one foot inside a hospital, he knew that would be the end of it. No more playing hooky. And as nice as this woman was–sometimes, maybe, if unintentionally–he was not going to give up his freedom in exchange for hers. It had come down to it: She would have to die.

But he did not _want_ to kill her. Every second took her further away from him and closer to the phone, wherever she had put that. He could barely hear his own thoughts above his speeding breath. It did not seem possible that he could have both. How could _she_ live and _he_ not die? How could he survive and let her continue existing?

“N-No. Stop. P-please. _Please_.”

God, he hated to hear the words coming out of his mouth, almost as much as that mortifying cry from earlier. He didn’t beg. He had begged enough. How many _years_ of his existence had been spent on his knees by now? There was _nothing_ that he owed this lady that should have required him to beg. If they got him back, though, he’d be doing a lot worse than begging. That was for sure.

“What was that?” Her head popped back into his sight.

Relief flooded through him so swiftly than he tried to scramble to his feet. This, unfortunately, did not work particularly well, and at her frown, he thought he had lost everything just then. She hadn’t moved yet, though. There was still time.

“P-please,” he said again. Still on his knees. This was enough for them, sometimes, so surely it would enough for her. She wasn’t like them. She’d fed him and let him sleep on her couch. She’d even worried about him after he had threatened to hurt her. He knew more about her than she expected, too. The journal underneath the stack of book underneath the coffee table. He knew what she wanted. He could be that something. “I need help.”

“I know you need help. That’s why I’m calling the hospital.” Her back turned to him again. He tried to follow after her, but his body just wouldn’t cooperate. Even crawling was too difficult. He got maybe three paces before collapsing once more.

“I–can’t– _please_.” Tears rolled down his face, again. He couldn’t let this happen, though. Whatever it took. “I can’t leave yet. Not right now. Please.”

Her fear had become replaced with suspicion. He hated that, hated even more that her fear had been _for_ him, not _of_ him. “What do you mean you can’t leave right now?” Some of the color left her face, leaving her paler than before. “Are you in trouble?”

“Yes!” She understood, thank god. “Yes, but–but I don’t want to be. I promise. They’re after me. I just want to leave. I–” This clearly wasn’t convincing her. Her eyes were only getting bigger and bigger as he went on. She thought, he recalled, that he was on drugs. “I’ll go,” he said, trying to sound less crazy, knowing all the while that he wasn't going to manage. “I’ll go myself. Just give me time.”

There was a very, very long pause. He could feel each excruciating beat of his heart. Could she see right through him? She wasn’t going to say yes, was she? She was going to wipe her hands clean of him. Maybe they’d even come by, give her a nice reward for the return of their favorite plaything. Only one thing left, then.

“Look in my bag,” he whispered urgently. She hesitated. The next please on his lips didn’t have to come out. Seeing it, she sighed and walked over to where said bag still sat on the carpet next to the couch. She threw him a look, which he answered only with, “the big pocket on the right. Unzip it.”

Another pause, but then she did as she was told. He held his breath until he saw her eyes nearly bug out of her face. Safe, then. He had to be. If that didn’t convince her, nothing probably would.


	14. Smile

“Oh my-”

The words slipped out of your mouth before you could stop them, but at least you cut them short. Your suddenly trembling fingers forced the bag’s pocket shut. Of all the things to find in this man’s belongings. It made sense, perhaps, but not in any good way. Your breath hitched as you stood there. Could you–but–Again, you spun back to him, where he was still half on the ground, white-faced and shaking.

“What is this?” you demanded.

He stared at you, thin lips pressed together in a pale line. His fingers still shook abominably, but some of the fear had faded from his eyes. They looked hard now, like chunks of frozen sea. “Six decades worth of pay.”

Your heart thumped so fast and hard in your ears that you could almost swear that you heard him wrong. Surely there was no way that he’d just said _sixty years_ of pay. He wasn’t that old. Maybe this guy wasn’t on drugs. More and more it seemed to be that he was simply just _insane_. _‘Talk him down. Talk him down, get him calm, call the police.'_

“Pay for what?” you asked.

His lips twisted. “Changing the world.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Does it matter? I might not know much about things out here, but you’ve got to pay rent, and I need a place to stay. Money’s yours, so long as I can stay here and you’ll keep your mouth shut.”

Where did this guy get off on being so rude? For that matter, where did he get off on being so rude one minute, and then shaking and crying on the floor the next?

“And what if I don’t want the money?”

“Then I’ll kill you.”

“You really think,” you said, forcing such calm into your voice that it quaked, “that sounds like a good deal? I let you stay when you’re obviously a murderer, and in exchange I get a few hundred dollars that you probably stole?”

“They didn’t need it anymore,” he said. His eyes were unfocused again, like it wasn’t really _you_ he was talking to. “They didn’t need it anymore, and they didn’t pay me, so why not take it? _I_ needed it. I don’t want to kill you.” His focus returned to you so quickly that it was almost eerie.

You subtly tried to feel for some sort of phone in one of the bag’s several pockets, but you didn’t get very far before he continued:

“I don’t want to, but if you keep that up, I will.”

You froze in your tracks. “You’re crazy.”

“I’m saner than I have been in years.”

If that were the case, you’d hate to see him on a bad day. His smile twitched, up and down, off and on. Then, quite suddenly, he flinched, swore, and got himself to his feet. It was not a graceful rising, but before you could say anything about that, he was moving toward the bathroom with greater speed than you would have expected a man that size and that injured would have been capable of. The door slammed shut behind him, and you were alone.

Your heart pounded very fast in your chest. He didn’t want to go anywhere; he wanted to stay in your apartment, that much was obvious. Were you really that stupid? _‘He’s scared. You used to be scared,’_ you thought, only to answer yourself, _‘You’re not a murderer.’_ But did you really know this guy was a murderer? All he’d said was that he _would_ kill you, not that he’d killed before. Oh, sure, and that was better?

Kat, you thought. You needed Kat. But where had you put your phone? A few more frantic pats of the man’s bag found you nothing the size or shape of what you could reasonably expect to be a cellphone. You probably couldn’t remember her number off the top of your head anyway. Now was the time to think fast. Any second now, he’d back. You needed a plan. Legs shaking, you forced yourself up. If you remembered correctly, the phone was on the kitchen counter–and now your guest stood right beside it.

“Looking for something?” When had he returned from the bathroom? When had he picked up your cell? When had he started looking like one stiff breeze wouldn’t strike him dead? It didn’t matter. He already knew he had the upper hand, as evidenced when he said, “One move and I crush it.”

You took a deep breath, one that rattled all your bones around. Or maybe it was just him rattling your bones. “Go ahead and get it over with, then.”

“Get what over with?”

“Killing me. If you’re going to kill me, then kill me. I’m don’t want–I’m _not_ going to wait around and play games with you.”

His hand, still wrapped snugly in a glove, tightened around your phone. “I already said I don’t want to kill you.”

“Then what _do_ you want?”

“I just want you to hear me out.”

“About what?”

“About why I’m here.”

There was something in those words that made you freeze. You weren’t just _cold_ anymore; no, you were downright frigid. The look on his face was contemplative, serious, but not one that looked as though he were contemplating your death. You swallowed.

“Do I have a choice?”

His expression hardened. “No.”

You did your best to harden yours in return. “I’ll call the police.”

“No, you won’t.”

For years, you had perfected setting yourself still on the tiny raft of your sea of fear. Anxiety had been a part of you always and always would be. It had taken this long for you to get the hang of sailing through it untouched. Now you very, very much wanted help, or to throw up, or both. Neither was an option. You could only feign that you still had some control. “

And how do you know that?” you asked. The haughtiness you attempted failed to crack through the high pitch your voice reached.

“You want some poor, dejected soul to take in? You’ve found him,” he answered. “It’s not ideal for me either. But you promised you would help me. I intend to make sure you make good on that promise.”

“I already _was_ helping. Those phone books–”

“They’re not going to help.”

“Why not?”

He smiled. It was not a pleasant smile. “Have you ever met a ghost, ma’am?” 

_‘_ _Oh no.’_

The smile twisted, turned upside down, and soon he was scowling as he tossed your phone back onto the counter. His eyes met yours. “Hail HYDRA.”


	15. Backfire

It ought not to have taken a genius to understand what he was getting at. He knew that she wasn’t the most intelligent human out there–but then, that was why this place had started out as such safe house to begin with. Still, it gave him some sense of satisfaction to see the gears turning in her head, to see the color drain from her face, and to watch the idea swiftly plant itself in her mind. She didn’t want to give in, though. She didn’t want to accept it. He could tell even before she spoke.

“If you’re about to tell me that you’re _dead,_ I’ll know where you really got all that money," she said.

“You really are crazy about the drugs, aren’t you?” he asked conversationally. Scoffing, he shook his head. “No. You asked me before. You know _exactly_ what kind of ghost I am.”

“The kind of ghost that doesn’t care who he kills or who he hurts.”

“ _Wrong_.”

That brought her up short, the vehemence in that single word. “Wrong?”

“I don’t–I don’t _like_ killing,” he said, the words bursting clunkily from his chest. “Why the hell else would I be here?” Maybe for anyone else, there could be other reasons. But for him? He didn’t know any. He hadn’t spent the last sixty years being deprived of reasons only to come out the other end capable of thinking any himself.

“You don’t want arrested,” she supplied for him.

That was the simplest answer. Perhaps it would be for the best to let her continue down that thought road. What did it matter if she thought him a villain? He _was_ a villain, was he not? He had killed and tortured and destroyed and nothing _but_ for as long as he could remember. But there was something there, something long-buried inside his head that told him that he had been more than that, that before his memories began, he hadn’t been a killer. What he had been instead was a mystery to him, but she could help. She _would_ help. She had promised.

“I want my _freedom_ ,” he answered.

The same answer, but with wider implications. He didn’t want arrested, no. Beyond that, he didn’t want taken by anyone. He wanted himself, even if that self was a murderer. He was willing to kill for that–even this small woman that had taken him in without a second thought. She was having second thoughts now, though. That was for sure.

“I can’t give that to you,” she said.

Always, always, _just_ when he thought he finally had the better of her and that she had learned to see sense and the danger evident in every fiber of his being, she pulled out some little brave act. No, it wasn’t even that. She wasn’t being _brave_ ; she was being matter of fact. But who had ever had the courage to do even that when faced with the Hydra’s toy assassin?

He could play brave right back now. She had fed him and let him sleep for at least a few days of his stay there. With his abilities, a couple nights’ sleep and a few good meals were really all he needed to keep going for a while. He had kept going on far, far less before. “You can,” he told her. “You will.”

“How do you know?”

Her voice was soft as a feather, but it cracked his confidence nonetheless. Couldn’t let her see that, though. Couldn’t let her see the truth. Couldn’t let her see that it was afraid. It didn’t feel fear– _‘No. But_ I _do._ ’ He took such a deep breath that his chest ached, and went on:

“I know,” he answered.

Goddamn, why was he always so easily distracted and put off? Must have been something in his programming. Wouldn’t want your secret weapon to think too long or too hard about anything. It was supposed to follow orders, not question–and never think. Thinking was dangerous. He knew that. But he _wanted_ to think, and to continue thinking, he needed to either get this woman on his side or make her too scared to breathe without his permission. Given his background, the latter seemed the easier.

“I know who you are in the dark. When those _friends_ ,” he sneered the word, “aren’t looking. You think you’ve seen hell, but that’s nothing– _nothing_ –compared to what I’ve seen. What’s waiting for us both if you give us away. What’s waiting for _them_ if you give us away. You’ll wish you’d stayed in the crack house when they’re finished with you. Because it’s _safe_ in there. You wouldn’t have met me. But you did, and you’re going to suffer for it. One way or another.”

The dramatics were almost worth it just to see the look on her face. Almost. Somehow, enjoying her terrified expression made his stomach churn. Clearly there was enough of the Asset inside him still to voice its sadism. Before they’d changed him, he remembered learning to enjoy his job. Damn. It wasn’t like he even wanted to hurt her. Well, he did, because that would easier. Weapons were so much easier when they wanted to do their job, then when they weren't kicking or screaming or crying or begging for everything to stop, please stop…

He shuddered back to reality quickly enough. Thank God. Much longer remembering the cold joy of a successful mission after the long months of cold pain and fear, and he was likely to go back to that. Go back to the cold…Numbness was better than feeling…What was there to feel but pain? _Come back._

Lucky for her that he had released her phone earlier, because to keep himself rooted he had to squeeze his hands so tight that it hurt his palms even through the gloves. Gloves. Gloves and clothes mussed and stinking from his time outside in the elements, and that stupid shower of his. When he looked back down at her, she was gazing up at him with the strangest expression on her face. Her skin was ashen and her fingers practically digging into the floor. But there was fire in her eyes. Fire that almost reminded him of something. Of someone.

“What do I have to do?” she asked.

It was her goddamn eyes that did him in. He would die here. So be it. Maybe there was something in just knowing he wouldn’t die alone.

“What I _need_ ,” he answered as he bent to open the money pocket of his bag, “is for you to take this.” He stuffed a wad of cash into her hand. “Take it, and get me something to wear. Something that won’t attract any attention if I ever have to leave.”

“I can’t–”

His narrowed eyes silenced her. Good. They didn’t have to like each other. It would easier that way. However, the smoldering he had seen inside her gave him some hope. HYDRA wasn’t knocking at the door yet. If she could hang on, he might just have a few more days left to make a plan.


	16. Honesty

“[Name], what’s the matter with you?”

Though you knew Georgianna and Karen were with you, though you knew you were safe in the local mall, and though you knew your houseguest had absolutely no reason to follow you here since it would endanger him more than it would endanger you, you jumped. The fingers that had been playing with the soft fabric of the men’s jacket in front of you lurched away. You looked up to see Georgianna watching you closely through her dark eyes–far _too_ closely. Realizing it had been her asking the question, you swallowed before answering:

“Nothing.”

“Don’t give me that,” Georgianna said, and you wished all over again Karen was out there with you, rather than in a dressing room. Georgianna’s eyes were sharpest, and though Kat’s tongue was certainly sharper, Georgianna had a special way of making you want to crawl into bed and never come out. Sometimes this was helpful–other times, not so much. “You’ve been quiet this whole time.”

“I’m always quiet.”

“Not this quiet.”

Georgianna had always been the one you tried your hardest to avoid. Not Kat, who might have looked mean and had a tongue like shattered glass but usually backed away at the earliest sign of trouble, afraid to watch you self-destruct. Not Karen, who usually fluttered softly around you during any episodes but felt too bad to prevent them entirely. No, _Georgeianna_ was the one that kicked your butt first and asked questions later. Admitting your mistake to her was the last thing you wanted to do. You’d sooner tell Kat who you’d invited into your home and let her punch your face in than endure Georgianna’s disappointment.

You returned to your fidgeting with a sigh. “I’m fine, George. Just a little tired.”

“That’s what you said last time. You sleeping all right?”

“Yes, George. I just have a lot to think about.”

“Because you went to the museum?”

You smiled, hoping this was explanation enough. In fact, your recent trip to the Commando’s exhibit had been the farthest thing from your mind. Since you’d given into your houseguest’s demands, all you had thought about was what you were going to do with him–but now you were out and about and you wondered if there was anything you needed to do. Sure, he was scary, but why did you believe him? Maybe it was just what Kat had said what felt like so long ago: This guy had gone through some tough stuff. And what had he promised you in return? Tough stuff. Maybe he wasn’t even who he said he was. Maybe you were just an enormous sucker.

“If that’s the case,” Georgianna interrupted your attempts to soothe yourself, “why’d you come along just to buy a bunch of men’s clothing? Did Ms. Walters give you a bonus or something?”

You did your best not to wince and simply smile your blandest smile again. “I got a little extra money. I thought it might be nice to donate it to someone else.”

Georgianna looked at you, long and hard. You gazed back, willing her not to read the lie in your every word. It wasn’t that you wanted to lie, especially not to the three women you loved more than anything else in the world, but he had said they were in danger, too. Whether it was from him or his– _people_ didn’t really matter. You had to keep Georgianna safe, and Kat and Karen. That was worth lying more than to protect a murderer before you knew he was a murderer.

_‘Please forgive me.’_ The prayer asked for serenity to accept the things you could not change, and goodness did you need that now. You couldn’t change what you had already done. This man was in your house, in your life, and threatening all the aspects of it that you had come to love in the past year and a half. If nothing else, you needed to keep your head.

Just before Georgianna could demand a real explanation, Karen came bouncing out of her dressing room to model a sundress.

“Oo, that looks cute!” she squealed at the jacket you’d been fondling. “You getting all this stuff for that guy? The one crashing on your couch?”

“Guy?” Georgianna asked, eyes narrowing slightly in your direction. “You mean that same guy Karen mentioned _last Friday_?”

Karen cringed. “Oopsie.”

“I didn’t know he’d stayed this long.”

Maybe Georgianna was pretending to be casual, but you knew she was worried. Why wouldn’t she be? You kept yourself on a strict schedule, and you ran a tight ship. Guys weren’t part of either of those. You’d given up on dating, given up on romance, given up on _sex_ in your attempt to keep yourself clean. Such activities were too tainted for you to remember pleasantly, or feel comfortable safely inserting yourself into again. During your chosen sober moments, you’d never had a man over–not in over a year now. No <i>did</i> have one over, and suddenly you had a lot of extra cash to burn. No wonder Georgianna was suspicious!

“Oh, I’m sure he’s safe, George!” Karen rushed to your rescue.

You shot her subtle appreciative look. She was better at lying than you were–or, well, since you’d decided to give up lying until the evening before, anyway.

“I met him, actually," she went on. "Didn’t do _anything_ dangerous.”

You noticed that she neglected to mention that your guest had been asleep when she had met him, and that she’d also threatened to beat him over the head with her purse for scaring the heebie-jeebies out of you by following you home. Georgianna eyed her suspiciously for one second too long, though, and that had Karen ducking back into the dressing room quicker than you could blink. Georgianna grumbled wordlessly as she slumped against the wall.

“You gonna be done anytime soon?” she called.

“Probably not!” Karen sang back.

Judging by the amount of clothes she had taken inside with her, you privately agreed. Privately being the key word, though Georgianna wasn’t about to let you off the hook that easy.

She caught your eye and gestured for the store entrance. “Let’s grab a bite to eat.”

Not that you looked forward to being alone with her, but you gathered up your purchases and headed after her into the food court. One parfait and half an iced-tea later, and you were starting to feel a little cheerier. You could still look forward to your guest having changed his mind and run off while you were gone, and your friends weren’t prying nearly as badly as you had expected them to. Then Georgianna had to go and ruin things by signaling the beginning of a lecture. 

“Look,” she said as you stiffened in anticipation, “I’m sorry about earlier. You’re a big girl. If you want to keep guys over, you can. I just want you to be safe. That’s all.”

Even after Georgianna changed the subject to something more comfortable, it took you a couple of minutes to feel up to responding. You slowly finished your drink and let your muscles loosen before you made any attempt at all.

“‘Course I’m going to be safe,” you answered finally. “Why wouldn’t I be safe? I’m still going to see my sponsor. I go to meetings every week. I don’t _want_ to go back.”

She regarded you over her soda. “That’s not the only thing you have to worry about these days, you know?” Then she surprised you by smiling and shaking her head before combing her fingers through her short, dark bangs. “Sorry, sorry. I’m just a nervous wreck lately. We keep getting calls about that ghost assassin. Kinda wish they’d just call the Ghostbusters on his ass.”

She looked at you shyly, and you realized this was her way of making a joke. You chuckled to humor her, but inside your intestines were tying themselves into knots. They were _looking_ for him. Maybe that was _good_ , though? The news had had plenty photographs of the carnage left in this man’s wake. But if they found him with you, then there would be no way to explain that you hadn't been a part of that carnage, too.

“No ghosts in my apartment, George. Promise,” you assured her, smiling.

Even that hurt. What on earth were you turning into?


	17. Wondering

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is brought to you by Emma/Adreamisawishyourheartmakes on Quotev, winner of my May 2020 Free Fic "Raffle."
> 
> My style has changed a lot in the last five years. That's just gonna be how it is, folks.

He sat on the couch, waiting, watching. The thin walls surrounding him masked only the softest of movements from the apartments above, below, and next door. Soon such noises became easy enough to filter out even with a portion of his mind dedicated to cataloging each one. Every other part of his mind remained focused squarely on the one person he could reasonably assume wasn't anywhere inside the building. Her now-memorized footsteps would have been obvious in their approach, and the fact that he had not heard them in some time consumed his thoughts. 

No movement on his part kept the time, yet the exact amount of seconds passed between each time that he would look again at the busted door to the apartment. Where _was_ she? Two hours had gone by since she left on the mission he'd tasked her with. That was more than enough time to get to a store, purchase a fresh set of clothing, and return. So why was she still gone? 

The way he saw it, there were only two explanations for her absence: Either his happy host had chosen to throw caution to the wind and turn him in to the closest "authorities" at hand...or said "authorities" had already got to her. His gaze would snap to the only window whenever he consider these possibilities. 

When he heard no approaching sirens, he would return to his previous occupation of waiting and watching. Mostly he watched the blank television screen plopped in the middle of a set of low, sagging bookshelves. There was nothing else for him to stare at. He learned quickly, and one of the things he had learned since finding himself in this place was how to work the television—but what was the point? All of a sudden there were entire channels dedicated to showing the news. All of a sudden "news" meant playing the same seven bulletins on loop. Last time he'd bothered, he'd seen four overblown stories meant to cause American citizens to fear SHIELD; three about various senators lobbying for a bill that had _much_ worse repercussions than anything in the previous stories; and one about water skiing parakeets. It had been the same on every single goddamn channel. 

Well, not _every_ channel. There were _other_ channels that told stories ranging from romantic dramas to wars in space. His eyes fell upon the remote sitting on the scratched-up coffee table as he mulled over finding one of those just to cut the babble in his brain. Before he could convince himself of the benefits of this, he shoved the remote onto the carpet with his boot. 

Petty? Yes. But hadn't he earned the right to be a little bit petty? Putting his shoes on her immaculately cleaned furniture was only a small act of rebellion, really. If she didn't get back soon, she could wind up with a lot worse than some grime where it didn't belong. Leaving him there alone only allowed him more time to stew in his black thoughts. Yes, the longer he had no one to distract him, the more likely it was that much worse might happen to her. 

Or perhaps worse already had befallen her when she stepped outside his line of vision. 

Like clockwork, he looked again at the busted door, waiting, watching. Where _was_ she? Two hours had gone by since she left on the mission he'd tasked her with. That was more than enough time to get to a store, purchase a fresh set of clothing, and return. So why was she still gone? The way he saw it, there were only two explanations for her absence— 

There! The sound of jangling keys penetrated his cycle of anxiety. Shifting himself into a better position to run past the intruder made the plates in his metal arm squeal. He did his best to ignore the noise; with no one to turn to for proper maintenance, such issues were only bound to grow worse. More important for now was the possibility of a fight. As the door pushed open, he swiftly pulled the remote off of the floor. Even something as light as that might become deadly in his hands if necessary, and he realized then it might be necessary. Teetering into the apartment was not the woman the place belonged to but a mound of multicolored, multi-branded bags walking atop a pair of tiny legs. 

His arm bent back to get the best angle. One chance. That was all he had if he wanted to escape without any noise. Then, just as he prepared to throw the remote, one of the bags in the center of the pile fell away to reveal a face— _her_ face. 

The surge of relief he felt upon seeing her kick the door shut behind her was so great that he dropped his intended projectile. So she wasn't hurt. He had not sent her marching off to her grave as he had so many others through the years. 

His relief vanished as quickly as it had overwhelmed him, that was how soon she gave him something _else_ to feel. She dumped her bags unceremoniously on the floor in front of the couch. A few fell in such a way that their contents spilled out: bright white socks bound in pairs; packages of soft-looking gray underwear; heaps of short-sleeved plain t-shirts that had never seen the light of day. The sheer amount of clean clothes—Clean! Even the clothes he wore now had been scavenged and stolen, mostly from sleeping vagrants—left him momentarily dazzled. He had never seen such a treasure trove in his entire existence. 

"What the hell _is_ this?" he demanded. 

She flinched at the anger in his tone, but she was learning to recover as quickly as he had learned to work the television. There was no fear in her voice when she answered, "Clothes. The clothes you _told_ me to go out and buy for you. Or did you already forget that?" 

"I don't forget that easily." To avoid answering her scoff, he scooped one of the packages of underpants from its pile. "I said to get me something to wear for when I left this hole. Some _thing_. Not a complete wardrobe!" 

"So you're just planning to wear the same thing all day every day until then?" 

"It's the only way." 

"The only way to _what_? I've been in your shoes before—" 

"No, you haven't," he said through gritted teeth. 

"—and one of the little things that made me feel better was getting to change out of my clothes that stank like wet garbage." 

"Cute," he sneered. "Let's imagine for just a second that I give a damn what I smell like. How do you intend to keep _these_ clothes from getting the same way?" 

"I can wash them when I do my own laundry downstairs—" 

He ripped the package in his hands in two. Underwear spilled from it and dripped into the mess below. Did he care? No, and he refused to feel bad about the look on her face either. She was _lucky_ he had only torn apart some wrapping as opposed to something she valued a little more highly. In the silence that followed, he stepped right up to her, right into her person bubble, toe to toe. His proximity forced her to crane her neck to look into his face. 

"So everyone can notice you cleaning a bunch of men's clothes every other week? So they can work out you've got someone living with you that they've never seen?" This he said in a low growl, but he rose his voice as loud as he dared to add, "God, it's like you have _no idea_ how to think for yourself!" 

She broke eye contact. Darker color unfurled in her cheeks. Not for the first time since following her home was he surprised he felt no savage pleasure at using her own words against her. Finding weaknesses, gathering hidden information—these were jobs he had been _designed_ to do. Why was it that now that he could use those skills for himself that doing so made his insides squirm? 

This time he would push through the guilt. She'd invited the devil into her home unknowingly, that was true, but now the devil was here to stay. There were a few things the two of them needed to get straight now that that was the plan. He could not give into her tears or her trembling anymore. One deep breath preceded his plunging onward: 

"I don't know _what_ , exactly, you think it is I've been through. Whatever it is you're imagining, I assure you that the reality is far worse. The people that did this to me are still out there, too. They will not stop looking for me until they have me. And when they find you with me, do you think they're going to be kind to you? They'll treat you the same way they treated me. Your withdrawals will be times you remember _fondly_." 

Still she would not look at him. 

"It only takes _one_ screw up. That's all you get before they're breathing down your neck. I have not spent _decades_ listening to people that told me they knew better than I did to lose my freedom because I listened to someone who has _no clue_ what she's gotten into. Do you understand me?" 

Her gaze remained on the floor. Not a single protest left her lips. She didn't even try to move away from him. He expected her to stay that way: silent and motionless. Threat of torture often had a way of convincing even those a threat of death could not. Now, at last, she could understand the danger she had put herself in. 

Then she swung her head upward, and said, "No." 

"No?" he echoed, taken aback. 

"No. I _don't_ understand. Because I gave it a lot of thought on my errand this afternoon, and I've decided that I don't believe you are who you say you are." 

"Are you _stupid_?" 

"Maybe. But it would be more stupid taking you at your word when all you've done since you regained consciousness is snap at me. There are reported sightings of Hydra's assassin all over the country. Why should I believe _I'm_ the one he decided to follow home? What are the odds? Heck, why would a guy like that even stay in D.C. after what happened?" 

"That's—" 

"None of my business? You've made it my business. I made too many promises to too many people that I care about to let you waltz in here and take me back to square one." She kicked one of the bags strewn across the floor without breaking eye contact. "I did what you wanted. I bought you clothes. If you expect me to do anything else for you, you'd better be prepared to give me hard evidence that what you're telling me is true." 

His jaw locked as he gazed down at her. "Fine. Don't listen to me. It's your life on the line." 

"No. It's _our_ lives." 

The two of them stood like that for nearly three straight minutes. She was right, although he did not want to admit it. His need for her was much greater than her need for him. No longer could he simply kill her and wash his hands of the whole affair. They would see his handiwork. Like he'd told her, it only took one screw up. If she refused to listen to him... 

"Show me," she said. 

"Show you what?" 

"You know what." 

"I don't have to show you anything." 

"Show me now, or we're done here." 

Another three minutes ticked off slowly and precisely in his mind. Had he been in peak condition, he could have thought of an alternative solution. He was sure of it. The trouble was that he was _not_ in peak condition. Only at the very beginning could he recall ever being in _worse_ condition, in fact. What other options did he have in the here and now? None whatsoever. 

“F-Fine.” 

He hated the way she made him stammer. No, it was more than that. He hated _her_. The fire in her eyes made it clear that he could not put this off, hoping she might drop it or find another way to be convinced. She was giving him no choice in the matter, and she did not realize how much that made him loathe her. 

"Now," she whispered. 

She would not even give him a chance to mentally prepare, or to breathe, or to offer up some other solution. He closed his eyes. At least that way _he_ would not have to see the damn thing. Already his empty stomach roiled inside him; he did not need to make himself feel worse. Before she could issue another ultimatum, he wrapped his fingers around the jacket sleeve around his left arm, yanked the fabric upward, and prepared for the worst.


End file.
